


A Book by Its Cover

by lupwned



Category: Gentleman Jack (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anne is a writer and Ann works at a bookstore, Eventual Romance, F/F, Poor lovesick Ann Walker, Romance, Slow Burn, This will be sweet and spicy and all the right kinda stuff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2020-08-18 20:18:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 43,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20197564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lupwned/pseuds/lupwned
Summary: Ann observes – studies her.The mystery woman grabs one book from the shelf and fingers through it quickly. Even from the short distance, Ann can see her hands are strong yet feminine, a professional shade of dark red polish on her short, manicured nails. She presses one lightly against the binding as she reads – impatient yet focused – and Ann watches every tap and twitch of them as they slide along the book's spine.“We share a name.”“Do we? Well imagine that."





	1. Chapter 1

There's barely a hint of orange sunrise reflected in the glass at the front of _Lightcliffe Books_ when Ann arrives, far earlier than necessary for her shift and yet, predictably in character. For the hour before opening, she finishes the usual morning routine before busying herself with a box of recent donations from a downsizing library across town. Some are in better shape than others, but they all have the sweet, piney scent of old paper and ink that Ann has come to love through her years there. She skims the back cover of each before cataloging them into their inventory, and while most seem to be the standard everyday fiction that attracts the locals, one in particular piques Ann's interest. It's a rather thick hardback – the outlier in an collection of paperbacks – and while the back description offers barely the slightest insight as to its contents, it's the image of a woman on the front – faceless, drawn from the neck down in a elegant bodice with red silk and jet black ribbons – that intrigues her. She's not typically one to judge a book by its cover – whether positively or negatively – but there's something strangely...well, _intriguing_ about it.

Ann reaches for a sticky note, presses it against the front of the hardback, and writes “do not shelve” in bright red ink.

Like most days, the work is uneventful yet rewarding all the same. She takes great joy in finding that perfect book for her clientele – whether a saucy little romance novel about a farmer and his milk maid, or the twisted, psychological horror of Paul Tremblay. Yet, Ann is unprepared for the challenge that steps through _Lightcliffe Books_' front doors at a quarter past 10.

It's rude to stare. That much Ann knows. But like the hardback she'd held between her hands not long ago, something draws her to the tall woman who has quickly gravitated to the right corner of the shop – dressed finely in a pair of black trousers and a matching blazer. The purple blouse beneath it – tucked into her waistline, accentuating her rather slim figure – is worn buttoned only just above her breast, and while that is _certainly_ a sight, Ann finds herself particularly attracted to the matching silk scarf at her neck and the collarbone and neck it accentuates.

Ann observes – studies her. She appears to be searching for something, her line of sight bouncing back and forth as she skims through the alphabetical order of the non-fiction section she's standing in. When she cocks her head in thought or focus – Ann isn't entirely sure which from the firm expression on her face – a few strands of dark hair with hints of chestnut fall across her face and highlight the exquisite jawline there.

The mystery woman grabs one book from the shelf and fingers through it quickly. Even from the short distance, Ann can see her hands are strong yet feminine, a professional shade of dark red polish on her short, manicured nails. She presses one lightly against the binding as she reads – impatient yet focused – and Ann watches every tap and twitch of them as they slide along the book's spine.

Ann should be prepared for this. She's been staring for an inappropriately long while. But she's a blushing, flustered mess when the woman finally approaches the front desk now empty-handed. In close proximity, her perfume makes Ann slightly dizzy, and any attempt at a pleasantry or a welcome comes out as barely more than a squeak.

And yet, the patron seems unfazed. “Good morning,” she greets, making the briefest of eye contact before grabbing her phone from the pocket of her slacks. “I don't suppose you have _Unmentionable_ by Therese Oneill? The last library with record of it mentioned they'd recently donated a large majority of their collection to nearby bookstores and I was hoping...” She looks up from her screen and smiles – wide, toothy, the kind of smile that resonates not just in the lips but up into the pink of her cheeks and the color of her eyes.

Ann stares at her, wide-eyed as though all of the blood in her brain has pooled elsewhere and left her with nothing else to do but look dazed and confused. She blinks, swallows hard, tries to collect herself before answering, more than a little bit embarrassed by the way her voice cracks when she first speaks. “We're on the list for several shipments,” she explains. “We've only received one so far, but I don't think...” Ann picks through the stack she'd sorted earlier in search of the requested title. “No, I'm so sorry, I don't think it's here yet if it's coming to us.”

“Figures it wouldn't be.” A sigh from across the register.

“I-I can special order a copy for you,” Ann offers quickly, desperate, as though the very idea of disappointing this complete stranger would be nothing less than devastating.

“Oh, you're very kind.” She reaches out and touches Ann's hand in a friendly gesture, a brief stroke of fingertips where her wrist meets her arm, assuring and unnerving all the same. “I could buy a copy online but there's nothing quite like the feeling of holding something right in your palms, is there?”

The room is suddenly very, very hot. Ann laughs nervously. “I couldn't agree more.”

“Tell you what. I'll give you my number and if it comes in for whatever reason, you can call and I'll come pick it up.” Brazenly, she reaches for the sticky pad and pen at the counter and jots down her name and phone number in handwriting that is as pristine as the unwrinkled silk at her neck.

Ann is flustered, to say the least, then taken aback at what she finds written there. “Anne?”

“Mmm?”

“Oh, nothing. Just a coincidence.” Ann laughs softly. “We share a name.”

“Do we? Well imagine that. Quite a good name, isn't it?” Anne smiles again, but this time it's more playful than wide, all lips but no teeth. Ann can't tell if it's a gentle brush of red stain or whether this Anne's lips are so naturally kissable. “Well I do hope to hear from you again Miss...” Anne raises an eyebrow, waiting.

“Walker.”

“Miss Walker.”

**-x-x-x-**

Unsurprisingly, Ann finishes the day in a complete daze. At her lunch break, when the shop closes for an hour and it's just her and the comfortable quiet of the bookstore until the next shift arrives to replace her, she reads the name and number given to her over and over, committing them both to memory.

Anne Lister.

Anne Lister.

Anne Lister.

The title Anne's requesting sounds so familiar, yet comes up nowhere in their database of stock as she searches their online system. A perfectionist, she's sure to enter and catalog every book that enters their doors, whether new or secondhand. It isn't until Ann's gathering her things – a pastel pink peacoat and matching bargain handbag – that she realizes where exactly she's heard – and _seen_ – it before. Beneath her jacket, behind a yellow sticky note with the words “do not shelve”, Ann finds exactly what she's looking for.

Now if only the courage to call back were so easily found.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love it? Hate it? Want more? Leave a comment below. Comments make the author smile and inspire more.
> 
> Catch me on Tumblr @awomanontheverge or Twitter at @pattilupwned!


	2. Chapter 2

A half hour ride home on the Tube does little to encourage Ann. She spends the majority of it reading Anne's sticky note over and over, studying the elegant curves and tight ink lettering; even the numbers have an interesting, cursive flair to them. The cell service underground is rather terrible, which only gives her more of an excuse to further put off calling this Anne Lister back. Thank God for small favors.

When she arrives home, Ann finds it impossible to carry on with her usual mundane routine. Instead, she obsessively rehearses what exactly she will say, pacing across her flat until there's practically an indent in the carpeting where her bare feet have repeatedly shuffled over it. The fifth variation seems like the winner, and with a combination of anxiety and hunger deep in her stomach – the thought of eating seemed dangerous with her nerves – Ann finally enters Anne's number into her cell and dials.

It rings once. Twice. Then a voice on the other end at the start of the third chime. “Anne Lister speaking.”

It's an unusually chilly, professional greeting, especially in contrast to the quiet nature of Ann's own greeting. “Hello, this is Ann Walker.” There's a pause while she waits for some sort of recognition. Small and timid, she isn't exactly one to make a particularly impactful first impression, so it wouldn't surprise her if Anne's already forgotten her. She's about to add '_from Lightcliffe Books_' when-

“Miss Walker!” Anne's voice softens. “Pardon my coldness. It's a force of habit on my business line.”

“It's ok,” Ann assures. “I thought you may have forgotten already.”

“Don't be silly. I remember you.” A beat. “I remember everything.”

Despite all of the earlier practice, Anne completely unnerves her. “I-well-” She clears her throat, then takes a deep breath to steady herself. “I found the book you were interested in.”

“You didn't! What luck. That quickly?”

“I'd actually earmarked it for myself. I'd completely forgotten about it and that's why it wasn't in our system.”

“Oh dear.” Anne's voice drops. “Well don't let me take it from you if you-”

“No,” Ann interrupts quickly. “I'm happy to give you what you want.” _Yikes._ “I mean, happy to give you what you need.” _Double yikes._ “I'm happy to help.” _Phew_. She presses her palm to her forehead in embarrassment.

“I have a commitment for most of the day tomorrow and Wednesday, but I could come to the shop later in the week for it?”

Ann's heart sinks a little. Somehow, she hoped they'd see each other again sooner than that. A little too eagerly, she offers, “I could leave it in your post box. That way, you don't have to wait the whole week for it.” There's a bit of dismaying silence that makes her worry she's overstepped.

But Anne follows up quickly with a light laugh and a coo. “What a sweetheart you are. I'm actually in-between apartments right now in my travels. Are you familiar with _The Shibden_?”

Ann smiles. All of Halifax is certainly familiar with Shiben. A hotel of sorts. Mostly extended-stay suites, but for the elite at over £500 a night. She'd attended a wedding there once as a teenager. The memories of the night are a little hazy (certainly not from the 3 glasses of celebratory champagne), but she remembers extravagance at every corner, from the shimmering crystal overhead to the expertly restored brick walls. It seems like a fitting place for this Anne Lister to stay. “I've heard of it.”

“There's a little cafe in the lobby. I'm booked solid after 10 but could meet for breakfast.” Anne stops herself with a scoff. “How rude of me. You're expected at the shop in the morning, aren't you?”

“Don't worry about that,” Ann assures. “I'll be there. Should I call when I arrive?”

“I've a table of sorts that I've unofficially claimed as my own,” Anne laughs. “Look for me at 8?”

Ann decides she'll arrive no later than 7:30. “Looking forward to it.”

**-x-x-x-**

There's a deep chill in the air the following morning, one that Ann curses as it ruins her intended outfit to impress. She'd spend the better half of the evening picking out just the right dress – knee-length, short-sleeved with pink and red rose print across white cotton. But the threat of frost in the change from autumn to winter means bare arms and legs are less than practical, likely to leave her a shivering mess that hardly aligns with the impression she's trying to make. Grumpily, Ann adds a pair of light leggings and a pink sweater to her ensemble before making her way to the train station.

For once, public transport works in her favor, and, as planned, she arrives at _The Shibden_ by 7:30. It's even more beautiful than she's remembered it to be, and with a bit of time at her disposal, she admires the decorations throughout. A series of large paintings – at least ten feet in height, clearly hand-painted and not the mass-replicated prints she's used to seeing in other hotels – are of particular interest to her. It would be so easy to get lost in their beauty, but tardiness is not an attractive trait, and so Ann pries herself away to find the cafe Anne had mentioned.

As promised, Anne waits for her at a corner table. She's lost in a book and a cup of tea when Ann first sees her, looking nothing less than stunning backlit by the sun through a nearby window. Unlike yesterday, Anne's hair is pulled up loosely in a flattering braid, a crown of braids along the top of her head while the rest falls gently over the back of her neck. Despite the casual nature of their meeting, Anne's dressed finely again in another stark black suit, but this time, with a crisp white button-up beneath. Even the watch on her wrist is dark charcoal with a hint of silver, and though they've only met twice, Ann begins to sense a pattern in Anne's choice of color – or lack thereof.

Quietly and carefully, Ann approaches, trying her best not to catch Anne off guard. “Good morning.”

Anne looks up from her paperback, marking her place with her thumb before she slips a thin red bookmark there. “Good morning, Anne.” A glance down to her wrist. “You're early.”

“Is that a bad thing?” Ann asks nervously, shifting the strap of her handbag up over her shoulder.

“Not at all. It's a sign of good character.” She gestures over to the empty seat across from her. “Sit. You haven't eaten already, have you? Can I get you a coffee? Tea?”

“No, I haven't. Tea is good.”

Anne waves a waitress over with a subtle wiggle of her fingertips. They are clearly on friendly terms, a name-to-name basis, which only makes Ann wonder more just how long she's been staying here. “A tea for the lady, please.” She shifts her attention to Ann once more, who sinks shyly into her chair. “How do you like it?”

Pink rises in her cheeks as her mind sinks to the gutter. “A bit of honey and sugar, please.”

Anne is, not so shockingly, quick to the point. “So you found it?”

“Oh!” Ann unzips the handbag in her lap. “Yes. I'm so sorry that I'd forgotten about it yesterday when you were there. If I hadn't, you would have already had it and-”

“But then you wouldn't be here with me, would you?” There's thin wrinkles in the middle of each of Anne's cheeks as she smiles – exquisite, unconventional dimples of sorts.

“I suppose not,” Ann responds, beyond flattered. She slides the book across the table and watches as Anne skims the first few pages. “If you don't mind me asking, why_ this_ book in particular? I mean, it looked interesting enough to me but I'm guessing it's more than a casual read if you were going out of your way to find a copy.”

Anne closes the front cover and looks up from it, making eye contact once again. “You've caught me, “ she confesses. “You're absolutely right, this isn't what I would typically consider a leisurely read. I've been looking for a copy to assist in some research. There are ten or so on my list, and this one was, admittedly, one of the easier finds.”

“Research? Are you a professor, or-”

“Oh god no,” Anne laughs. “I'm actually in the process of writing a book.”

Ann's eyes light up. “You're a writer?”

“So they tell me.” Anne pauses for a sip of tea. “I mostly focus on prominent figures in medicine and science.”

“Non-fiction?”

“Usually. I find the subjects absolutely _fascinating_.”

“Tell me about them?” Ann urges. The sentiment is genuine, because even though they've only just met, Ann is certain she could listen to Anne talk all day if given the chance.

And oh, does Anne take the opportunity and run with it. Excitedly, she relays the abbreviated history of Alice Ball, a prominent female chemist and the focus of her first biography. Ann tries her best to pay attention to the specifics being shared, but it's difficult not to become distracted by way Anne_ looks_ while doing it. Her hands wave animatedly between them, accenting particular points with flick of a wrist, until they eventually settle at her throat, mindlessly twisting around the simple gold chain that sits there. Ann's eyes focus there for a moment, then travel up to bare lips, to pale cheeks, to the sharp angle of Anne's nose that makes her wonder whether a fracture or genetics are to blame for its unevenness. The longer she looks at it, the more Ann decides it's one of Anne Lister's most striking attributes.

“And this?” Ann points to the book she's handed over. “Is your next biography about 19th century unmentionables?”

“Cheeky,” Ann chuckles. “Too early to tell yet. I'm only in the research phase.”

“But you must have some idea?” Is she prying? Ann apologetically sinks further into her seat.

“I do.”

She's being a bit of a tease, but Ann's trying not to stick her nose where it doesn't exactly belong yet, which proves difficult when all she wants to do is learn absolutely _everything_ she can about Miss Anne Lister, author and pantsuit-wearer extraordinaire.

“What do I owe you?”

Ann blinks, confused. “I'm sorry?”

“For the book. I'd imagine that if I hadn't come for it, it would have eventually gone up for sale. So what do I owe you?”

The very idea of accepting any sort of money seems absolutely absurd. Ann shakes her head. “No payment necessary.”

“Hmm.” Anne frowns. “Well at least let me return the favor in some way?”

It's Ann's turn to smile now. “This breakfast alone more than covers the bill.”

“You are a stubborn girl, aren't you?”

Ann shrugs sheepishly. “On occasion.”

“A _regular _occasion, I'd imagine.” Anne winks. “Tell you what. My agent's got me going to a book signing at _Waterstones_ on Wednesday. I don't suppose you'd like to attend?”

Ann's head swims. “I would love to,” she answers with no hesitation.

“It will likely bore you.”

_I doubt that_, Ann thinks. “I don't mind.”

“Well it's settled then.”

Something about Anne's mere presence makes her feel a bit more bold. “You don't suppose I could get the author to give me an autographed copy of her latest?" There's a flash of teeth, accompanied by what Ann swears is a blink-and-miss-it swipe of a tongue across her lower lip.

“I may be able to arrange something.”

**-x-x-x-**

Their breakfast ends with the usual pleasantries. There's even a posh kiss on each cheek that leaves Ann more flustered than it should.

Naturally, working at a bookstore, she's attended her fair share of signings. It's usually under some sort of work obligation, but with enough warning, in an attempt to be polite enough, Ann's always tried to at least speed read through each book to vaguely discuss it with the guest of honor.

But she wants to do so much more than politely “discuss” Anne Lister's bibliography.

She's on a mission now, and there's less than 48 hours to finish it. With a serviceable wifi signal in the Tube, Ann opens the Amazon app on her iPhone and enters two search terms into the empty input bar.

“_Anne Lister”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments make the author smile and inspire more. Let me know your thoughts below!
> 
> Come say hi on [Tumblr](http://awomanontheverge.tumblr.com/) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/pattilupwned) too!


	3. Chapter 3

“I cover for you at the last minute and you don't even have the courtesy to bring coffee. _And_ you're late.”

Ann ignores her best friend's grumbling, rolling her eyes as she brushes past to hang her coat. She'd certainly _planned_ to stop for a thank you scone, but falling down the Amazon rabbit hole of the “Anne Lister Collection” had unexpectedly usurped her attention. An extra twenty minutes and two missed stops later, she'd finally managed to hop off feeling only _marginally_ embarrassed and – to Catherine's dismay – pastryless. “How many times have I come in at 7AM on a Monday for you because you were so hungover you could barely see straight?”

“I do not recall,” Catherine scoffs, feigning innocence. “Where were you?”

Ann shrugs, trying to play it cool. “I had an engagement.”

Suspicious, Catherine raises an eyebrow. “Like a _date _engagement?”

“No.” Reflexively, Ann's jaw tightens.

“Ann Walker, you are a terrible liar. Spill. Although if he insists on breakfast dates, end it now because bed head is _not_ a great look on you.”

“Honestly, Catherine. You really are the _greatest_ friend.” Her voice is flat to match the expression on her face. “In case you couldn't tell, that's sarcasm.” When Catherine doesn't let up, pressuring her for details with puppy dog eyes and a pout, Ann relays as little as she thinks she can get away with. “I was making a delivery. A customer came in yesterday looking for a book that I didn't think we had, but it turns out we did so I-”

“Woah woah woah.” Catherine shakes her head in disbelief. “You did what?”

“Stop. It isn't-”

“Mmmhm. Was he hot, at least?”

Ann isn't quite sure how to answer that. She's always pretended to at least be semi-interested in the parade of men Catherine's thrown her way. Polite enough, but ready with her tried-and-true excuses after the first date. In a way, it's her best friend's fault if she's chosen to be this oblivious for so long. But the concept of any sort of confrontation makes Ann feel sick to her stomach, so she resigns to a sheepish smile and shrug as her response. And she's tremendously grateful for the two older women who walk up to the counter and steal her attention before Catherine has the opportunity to pry any more...for now.

**-x-x-x-**

Over the years, Ann's perfected her “train face”: the unimpressed stare she gives those around her – usually men – who feel the need to invade her space with unwanted touches and conversation. Her headphones and sunglasses typically serve her well, but with Anne Lister's latest downloaded to the Kindle app on her iPad, there's a different (and decidedly more exciting) distraction for her evening ride home.

_Honeypot: The Hystorical Price of Being Female_.

Although the Amazon listing has a brief synopsis, Ann decides to go in blind. The pun and double entendre in the title, however, are certainly not lost on her.

By the time she arrives at her home station, Ann's already finished the first two chapters. She expected the writing to be good, but god, not _this_ good. Medicine isn't a subject she typically finds all that interesting, and certainly not enough to speed through almost 70 pages in under an hour. But Anne's elevated the subject of women's hysteria diagnoses with a perfect balance of humor, shock, and sensuality.

Once off the Tube, the rest of Ann's commute home is excruciating. She practically jogs the last stretch of it in an attempt to get home faster, which is a rarity in itself, having been quite steadfast in her belief that a zombie apocalypse would be the only thing to really get her running...and even then, it might not be worth it. Slightly out of breath, she storms through the front door of her flat, tosses her things haphazardly across the back of her sofa, and curls up for a long night of reading. With less than 24 hours and half of a work day ahead of her before the book reading, Ann's determined to finish all 350 pages.

She's done with chapter 3 in record time and breezes through chapter 4 on Ancient Rome's _Passio Hysterica. _Chapter 5 makes her skin hot more than once, although she's not sure whether that's from the glass of red wine she's sipping or the mention of “unfulfilled sexual desire” as the root cause for most female mental anguish.

Which is _definitely _not something she can relate to.

No. Not at all.

By the time she reaches the 15th century, she's bleary-eyed and a little delirious. There's only one more chapter to go, and while she's sure she could power through it, actually retaining what she's read is a completely different matter. Ann yawns, stretches, gently slaps her face, contemplates making a cup of coffee at 3AM – anything she can do to stay awake just a little longer. Because it isn't just about finishing the book. No, anyone can simply read a book and ask for an autograph when the author comes to town. But she wants so much more than that – a real _conversation_, a genuine dialogue.

And who knows. Anne may send her on her way like any other fan she's encountered before, with polite enough talk but nothing of real substance. After all, she'd only invited her for an autograph signing, not an in-depth discussion.

But should that happen – should fate work in the miraculously mysterious ways it sometimes does - at least Ann will have come prepared.

**-x-x-x-**

Unsurprisingly, she oversleeps. In the frenzy of her book reading, she'd forgotten to set the alarm on her cell phone, only to wake on the couch a little after 8AM with an aching neck and a steady dribble of drool across her face. What a marvelous impression she'll make.

With barely fifteen minutes to shower, dress, and get out the door, Ann's options are limited. She throws on a pair of skinny jeans, a red pullover sweater, and a pair of black flats. There's no time to primp the way she wants to, so she opts to toss a nicer change of clothes into her bag along with her makeup kit to deal with once her shift is over. The patrons of _Lightcliffe Books_ can handle her bare face for a few hours, but she'd _never_ make Anne Lister endure the same.

On most days, there's barely a customer for the first hour after opening. But the universe clearly has something against her today, because when Ann finally arrives at the shop – fifteen minutes after the usual opening time – there's already someone waiting impatiently at the door, serving her a wonderfully annoyed look as she rushes to the front with her keys. “I'm so sorry,” Ann apologizes, a little out of breath.

“I've been waiting for fifteen minutes. Rather unprofessional of you, Ann.”

“You of all people show know, Mrs. Priestley, that this is hardly a regular occurrence.”

“Your mother never would have-”

And at that, Ann tunes out, disinterested in anything else snarky Mrs. Priestley has to say. If she had the courage, she'd tell the old woman off – that she is _not_ her mother, that it was _one_ time, that, all things considered, she'd imagine her parents would be rather _proud_ of her for the way she's managed the shop over the years with little guidance. But her eagerness to please trumps the itch for confrontation, so Ann bites her tongue and fakes a smile. “Was there something I could help you find?”

**-x-x-x-**

With Sophie scheduled to be in at 2, Ann determines she'll have just enough time to make herself presentable and still arrive with plenty of time to spare for the 4PM book signing. She'll purchase a hard copy of _Honeypot_ at the door for her to sign, and Anne will have been none the wiser.

The work day drags. She watches the clock, wills time to move faster. By 1, she's giddy with excitement.

By 1:45, Ann gets a little anxious.

And by 2:15, when Sophie still isn't there, she's on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

She calls. And texts. And calls again. Sophie's never been the most reliable employee, but with the schedule set long before she'd had these plans, she's stuck with the help she has.

With a pair of thick sunglasses over her eyes and an overpriced coffee in hand, Sophie finally rolls in around 3. There's not an ounce of concern on her face, and it takes everything in Ann's power not to strangle her outright. “You're late,” she hisses under her breath, frantically grabbing her things from where she's stored them behind the counter.

“Sorry, I had to stop at-”

But Ann doesn't have time for Sophie's bullshit today. She rushes to the private bathroom in the back and swaps her pullover for the flower-patterned blouse in her bag. There isn't enough time for the entire ensemble she'd planned, so she keeps the dark wash skinny jeans and leaves the makeup for her train ride. Her tangled mess of hair can't really be saved without a shower, but a high ponytail looks better than the frizziness she's sporting with it down. She runs a bit of water through her hair with her fingers and twists her frenzy of blonde curls up with the band around her wrist.

By the time she arrives at the station, she's already missed the 3:30, leaving the 4 as her only other option. It puts her at _Waterstones_ a little before 5. As in – late. Really late. There's a good possibility Anne might not even be there anymore by that point. But she's determined, goddamn it, and so she waits for the train, trying desperately not to be _that _person crying on a bench waiting for public transport. It might not be a full breakdown, but when the 4PM train finally arrives, her nose is red and her cheeks are wet.

**-x-x-x-**

There's a small crowd in the back of _Waterstones_ when Ann finally arrives. She's a mess, but a _slightly more presentable_ mess with a touch of mascara and a light pink gloss on her lips. Overhead, large signs hang from the ceiling to promote Anne's book and signing event. She follows them to where Anne's seated in the corner behind a long table with a stack of her books and a set of black ink pens for her to sign with. There are rows of fold-up chairs setup across from her, and Ann guesses that there must have been some sort of reading or Q&A that she's missed. An emotional crier, she bites her lip to stop the bit of tears that are already brimming, because she will _not_ be a blubbering mess when talking to Anne. _Absolutely not_.

Nervously, she walks forward, trying not to interrupt the conversation that's already taking place. There are two middle-aged women chatting excitedly with Anne, who looks marginally interested but is pleasant enough nevertheless. Another woman stands a few feet behind the signing table, dressed in a navy blue suit with a pair of pearl earrings and a matching necklace. She wears her long brown hair slightly curled at the ends, and she's glaring at Anne with her jaw tight and lips pressed tightly together.

And then there's Anne. Oh, Anne.

She's in black again, this time a more loose cut jacket with a solid grey v-neck t-shirt underneath. The only hint of color is a bright red scarf at her neck, tied loosely enough that the ends of it drape delicately along her collarbone. There's a series of diamond studs fastened in the top of her left earlobe, an interesting mix of feminine and masculine in their style and placement.

“Well there you are!” Anne greets her with a smile. “I thought you might have forgotten or been too busy.”

In her admiration, Ann hadn't even noticed the departure of the ladies in front of her. Embarrassed, she barrels forward to the table. “Not at all. I am so sorry I'm late. I'm mortified.”

Anne shakes her head, opens her mouth to likely assure Ann that it's fine, really, _it's fine._

But seeing Anne in person again opens all the floodgates and she starts to blabber, barely stopping for a breath throughout. “I had plans to be here early, hoping I could be the first in line because it was so nice of you to invite me at all. But god forbid Sophie actually follow the schedule so I had to rush here, looking like a madwoman. I'm pretty sure I have mascara in my eye and lipstick in my teeth because makeup and moving vehicles don't exactly go hand-in-hand but I'm here! I'm _here_. And I wanted to say just how much I _loved_ this book and the approach you took with it. How you decided to stop right before the 19th century because everyone knows _that _part of the history, right? But no one really stops to think about the origins of it, the never ending suffering under the hands of men because they don't understand things, they never try to learn or change their ways and I just-” Ann stops short, realizing how ridiculous she must look and sound. She half expects Anne to call security, but Anne just _smiles_ at her – wide and bright with a look of genuine adoration and interest.

“You read my book?”

“I-” Ann wrinkles her forehead. “Well of course I did!”

“Do you have it?” Anne reaches for a pen but never breaks eye contact.

“Oh, I..” Ann's shoulders slump. “Well, see, I had planned to get here early so I could buy it for you to sign. I read it all night on my tablet last night but didn't have a chance to get a physical copy.”

A quick nod on Anne's part, then she grabs the top copy of _Honeypot_ from a nearby stack. It only takes her a moment to sign it before she stands and carefully places it in Ann's hands. “On the house.”

“No, I couldn't possibly-”

Anne shushes her with a gentle brush of fingers across the top of her hand. It's brief contact, but enough to make Ann feel like jelly from head to toe. “I'm booked with a work engagement for the rest of the night, but I wouldn't suppose you'd like to have dinner sometime? We can make up for the lost conversation today. I'm quite interested in hearing your full review.”

Ann can hardly breathe. “I would love that.”

“Looking forward to it.” Then Anne turns away, joins the woman in the navy suit and pearls who has moved from the signing table and since set up shop at the front of the store to animatedly entertain another gaggle of women.

Slightly dazed, Ann practically floats through _Waterstones_ as she makes her exit. It isn't until she's halfway to the train station that she realizes that in order to actually _have_ dinner with Anne, she needs a way to coordinate it. “Idiot,” she mumbles under her breath. She cradles her face in her hands, mortified by her naiveté and stupidity. Had Anne played her? Done her best to send her away without a confrontation? She could find her at _The Shibden_, sure, but arriving there unannounced would be stalkerish at best. A ring on Anne’s work line might be more acceptable, but even that sounds a little out of bounds.

Annoyed, Ann tosses her new copy of _Honeypot_ onto the empty seat beside her. The front cover falls open with the force, and out of the corner of her eye, Ann's drawn to the distinct curl of Anne's handwriting. She'd assumed it had been just a simple autograph, but there's more to it when she picks the hardback up and reads.

_Darling Ann,_

_Perhaps this book may one day become a fond memory of the start of something unexpectedly beautiful._

_Anne Lister  
_ _07911 453925_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Anne(s)....;)
> 
> I am admittedly NOT from the UK, so if I completely botched the phone number format, pleeeeease tell me. Ya girl tried to research as best she could, but :D
> 
> Comments make the author smile and inspire more. Let me know your thoughts below!
> 
> Come say hi on [Tumblr](http://awomanontheverge.tumblr.com/) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/pattilupwned) too!


	4. Chapter 4

In bed that night, Ann reads the inscription again and again, warmth creeping up the back of her neck and ears each time she passes over the world “darling”. No one has ever really referred to her as such – condescendingly, perhaps, but never genuine in the way Anne has here.

How desperate might she appear if she were to call already? Just a simple thank you between acquaintances – budding friends, perhaps. She pulls the contact record up for Anne in her phone. Her thumb traces past the business line Anne had previously given her at the bookshop to the newly entered mobile number, yet she hesitates there for a moment, lingers next to the call prompt as she lacks the courage to actually tap it.

Perhaps she could just send a text. It's an easy enough way to start a conversation, with little pressure or obligation for her to respond immediately. But when she stops to really think about it, Anne seems like the kind of person who prefers more _direct _communication. _Fuck it_. Ann presses the call icon.

It rings. Then rings again. Does it always ring this slowly? She taps her fingernail anxiously against the back of her phone case, the steady “click, click, click” echoing in her ear as the line continues to trill.

“Hello?” It's a noticeably different sort of greeting from when Ann had called before on business. The voice on the other end is low, a little groggy sounding, but still distinctly Anne.

Ann pulls the phone away from her face to check the time. 12:35AM. Well, shit. She hadn't noticed how late it is, and of course Anne's had a long day working and is probably just trying to sleep.

“Hello?”

“Hi.” Ann's throat is suddenly tight, as though a rock is stuck uncomfortably inside of it. “It's, um. It's Ann. Just, uh,” she scratches at the back of her scalp, “giving you a call, I guess. But I'm just realizing now how _incredibly_ late it is and I'm so sorry if I woke you up. Perhaps I should call back at a better time?”

“Any time you might call is a good time.”

If she weren't swooning before, Ann _definitely_ is now.

“So you're a bit of a night owl, huh?”

“Not usually,” Ann answers. “Just couldn't sleep tonight, I guess.”

“And why is that?”

There's a chill in her apartment but Ann is suddenly _sweating_ beneath her comforter. “I don't know.”

“Hmm.”

Ann can practically _hear_ the amused smile on the other end of the phone. “I just wanted to thank you again for today. And for the book.”

“It's my pleasure. It's not often I meet someone who has enough interest in my writing that they spend the whole night reading it in one go. It was the least I could do.”

An interest in her writing or an interest in _her_? Ann bites her tongue. “It isn't something I do regularly, but I couldn't help it. By the first chapter, I was hooked.”

“You're sweet, Ann. Really.”

There's a moment of awkward silence, and she can't quite tell if Anne's just tired or preoccupied or waiting for her to continue. Words aren't exactly her strong suit – reading them, sure, but coming up with the right thing to say? Well, _that_ talent she certainly lacks. “I'm not keeping you from anything, am I?”

A breath of a laugh on Anne's end. “Not at all. In fact, you're an excellent distraction. I've been reading through this book you found for me and taking so many notes that I'm growing a little cross-eyed. Probably best I call it a night on the research anyway.” A beat. “I don't suppose you've considered my offer for dinner any further, have you?”

_I've thought of nothing else, _Ann wants to confess. “I have.”

“Any preferences?”

_All _of Anne Lister is her preference. “Not particularly.”

“Are you a vegetarian?”

And god, the lilt of Anne's accent makes it sound like she's said something else entirely, something crude that makes Ann want to slink under the covers down to the gutter where she belongs. She bites back an inappropriate giggle. “No.”

“There's a place that's walking distance from here. It's a Thai restaurant, if that interests you? I highly recommend it. It's a quiet little restaurant. I like to go there sometimes to read and work, but it's fine enough for a nice dinner too.”

“That sounds perfect.”

“Friday night? I could send my car for you if you don't want to worry about traveling?”

“Oh, god, no. I couldn't.” And really, she couldn't, because the thought of being driven around in Anne Lister's private car, even if she isn't there with her, seems like just too much at this point. “I'll just meet you at your hotel around 6?”

“I'll be in the lobby waiting.”

There's a shuffle on the other end of the line, and while Ann doesn't really have any clue, she likes to imagine Anne moving from her desk to settle into bed, her hair falling down in loose waves as she unpins it from the updo it's been in for the day. And perhaps she's in an oversized tee and nothing more, all long legs and bare skin, finally comfortable after a day of suits and button ups and the posh that is her wardrobe. But no, Anne's so particular in her dress that it's probably a set of silk pyjamas instead, crease-free in her signature shade of black. And maybe, just maybe-

“Ann?”

_Shit. _“I-I'm sorry?”

Another laugh, airy and amused. “I'm exhausted, sweetheart. It's been a long day. Would you mind if I-”

“Oh gosh, yes, of course,” Ann assures. “Please, go sleep.”

“I'll send you the dinner menu sometime tomorrow? If it looks good to you, I'll make us a reservation.”

“That sounds perfect. Now please, sleep. I'm sorry I've kept you for this long.”

“Goodnight, Ann. Try to get some sleep yourself, ok?”

Ann nods assuredly, as though somehow she would actually be able to see her. “I'll try.”

“Sweet dreams.”

When the line goes dead, Ann tosses her phone on the bed stand and curls up deep beneath the covers, cocooning herself in a makeshift embrace. She closes her eyes and imagines the warmth of Anne beside her, what it might feel like to be nestled beside her instead. Anne's fingers stroking slowly through her hair, soothing her to sleep with light touches and the careful press of lips at the back of her neck. It isn't long before sleep overcomes her, and the dreams Ann has are indeed very, _very _sweet.

**-x-x-x-**

“I have something to tell you and you have to promise not to freak out.” Ann busies herself with a few books that need re-shelved as she waits for Catherine's inevitably snarky response.

“Ann Walker, you can't just say that crap and not expect me to lose it. Spill.”

With a stack of tattered paperbacks in her arms, Ann shuffles down one aisle of shelves, talking over her shoulder as Catherine follows her like a shadow. “I might kinda sorta have a dinner date. And I was hoping that you-”

Catherine gasps. “No way. _No way_. You. I'm....shocked. Honestly shocked.”

Ann rolls her eyes. “_Must_ you be that way?”

“Yes, I believe I must,” Catherine responds playfully. “This isn't the same breakfast date from the other day, is it?”

Ann shrugs.

“Oh god, it is, isn't it?”

There's a few misplaced books laying on the edge of the shelf that Ann distracts herself with, partly to appease her OCD and partly to keep Catherine on edge because god, it shouldn't be this easy and this fun to string her along. “I was hoping you might come over and help me figure out what to wear.”

“That's going to require a shopping trip first for a new wardrobe.”

Ann wrinkles her nose. “What's wrong with my wardrobe?”

Catherine pointedly eyes the dress Ann's wearing – a light little sundress with a lilac pattern along the hem and an oversized eggshell button-up sweater to match. It's cute and comfortable enough. But Catherine is severely judging her, eyebrows raised and arms crossed against her chest. “This might scream '_World's Best Librarian_', but it certainly doesn't say '_do me_'.”

“You're crass.”

“Perhaps, but I'm also right.”

“This isn't that kind of date,” Ann tries to explain. And yes, of course there's a part of her that hopes it could be, but it's far too soon and the likelihood is slim to none. “We're just going for some dinner and conversation and that's all.”

Catherine's face scrunches up as though she's smelled something vile. “That sounds...terrible, Ann. Like, honestly my idea of torture.”

“Are you going to help me or not?” Ann sighs, already deeply regretting her decision to bring her best friend into this.

“You know I will. Now do I at least get to know this mystery man's name?”

There's a jolt of panic in Ann's chest. Put on the spot, her mind certainly isn't firing at all cylinders, and she definitely doesn't think of the consequences of sinking further into the pit of lies she's already begun to dig herself into. But Catherine's growing impatient, maybe even a little suspicious at how long it's taking for her to give an answer, and so Ann blurts out the first thing she can think of. 'Al. Their name is Al.”

“Al? Sounds like a fifty-year-old white man with a beer gut who lives in his mother's basement. Seriously? _Al_?”

“This judginess is not flattering on you, Catherine.”

“Thanks, _mom_. Now if you'll excuse me, I need some time to plan this makeover.”

“You have another 2 hours in your shift!” Ann calls from around the corner as Catherine grabs her bag and twirls her way to the front door.

“Desperate times call for desperate measures.” Catherine pulls a pair of oversized, brown-tinted glasses over her eyes and dramatically tosses the edge of her scarf over her shoulder. “Ciao.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Text messages, more Catherine / Ann banter, and a dinner date :) 
> 
> At first, I'd planned to include the entire date in this chapter but knew it was going to get rather long, so we have a ~conversation~ here between the Ann(e)s, some light banter between friends, and Ann setting herself up for some _drama_ in the end...
> 
> Love it? Hate it? Leave your thoughts below :) The comments and encouragement I've received so far have been absolutely wonderful. The Ann(e)dom is truly great here ;) 
> 
> Come say hi on [Tumblr](http://awomanontheverge.tumblr.com/) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/pattilupwned) too!


	5. Chapter 5

As promised, Ann receives a text message with the menu for _Lotus_ early Thursday afternoon. She's finishing up a post-work stroll when it comes through, and Ann's so ridiculously giddy by the sight of “A.L.” in her notification bar that she has to stop for a seat on a nearby park bench to compose herself.

**A.L: ** _“Ann – take a look when you have a moment. I'll make reservations for tomorrow night if you have no objections.” _

If she's being honest, she'd be content with a fast food burger and fries if it meant seeing Anne again. Still, she takes the time to read the menu thoroughly as asked, and with at least 4 different options piquing her interest, _Lotus_ seems like a perfectly acceptable choice.

“_Everything looks delicious. Count me in.”_

Ann doesn't expect a response, especially not one so quickly, but she's barely through her entryway door when her phone buzzes again.

**A.L: ** _“All set for 7.”_

The tone of text messages can be difficult to decipher at times, and Ann's not exactly sure if she's supposed to say something back or whether that's the end of their very-to-the-point conversation. She types, then deletes. Tries again a few times, only to hit the backspace as quickly as she started. Perhaps Anne will notice her struggle as the iMessage typing dots bounce and fade and show her some sort of mercy, toss her some sort of bait to hook on to with a casual ask about her day. Ann stares at where the cursor blinks in the chat bubble, willing herself to come up with something sweet or coy or clever to say to impress. But when nothing seems quite right after a few minutes of failed attempts, Ann tosses her phone onto the sofa and resigns to her usual boring evening routine, trying her hardest not to think about what Anne might be doing at that very moment.

Not surprisingly, she fails miserably. All thoughts lead back to Anne and their upcoming dinner date. Meeting. Get together. Had Anne ever even referred to it as a _date_? In her experience at the bookshop, straight women_ love_ to get together for dinner in groups to discuss literature. They get tipsy on boxed wine all too quickly and complain about their useless boyfriends and husbands and barely end up talking about the book of the month at all.

But this meal with Anne _has_ to mean something more. She could not have so badly misread the signs and the body language and the terms of endearment. Unsure of herself, Ann decides on a bath and a glass of red wine and lets the bubbles and 6.2% alcohol by volume block out the “what ifs” nagging in the depths of her brain.

**-x-x-x-**

Catherine may be annoying at times, but Ann's grateful for her slightly obsessive personality when she arrives at her apartment a quarter past 4 on Friday with a mountain of options in tow. “I'm partial to the cocktail dress myself,” Catherine suggests as she hangs each outfit up for Ann to look through.

In true Catherine taste, it's a low cut, tight-fitting thing that only covers what it absolutely _has _to. It might be perfect for a night out at the club, but it doesn't quite seem right for a nice dinner out. Ann will certainly keep it in mind, however, in the event she actually gets to a second or third date. “What else do you have?” she asks, fingering through the collection of hangers.

“If you're not interested in a dress, there's an option at the end there.”

Ann grabs it from the end of the bar in her wardrobe. It's a finely tailored navy suit, and with the right patterned blouse underneath it and some kickass pumps, she could knock it out of the park. But something tells her this in more in line with Anne's choice of wear for the evening, so she decides on something a bit more traditionally feminine instead.

“How about this one?” Catherine selects a dress from the middle of her collection. “Add a pair of diamond earrings and you're basically all set with this one.”

Ann tucks her hands beneath the hem and gives it a good once over. There's a lot to admire about it – the delicate pink hue, the intricate lace pattern along the neck and sleeves, and the darted bodice that would surely show off her figure without being overtly revealing. The long zipper at the back of it from neck to waist brings a touch of sex appeal to the modest cut, and it only takes one quick look in the mirror once Ann's tossed it on to decide that, oh yes, this is definitely _the _dress.

As Catherine had suggested, Ann chooses a set of earrings from her collection – an elegant silver tear style with a crystal drop at the end and accents of diamonds surrounding it. The way they dangle compliments the length of her neck and the sharp angle of her jaw, and when the light catches them just right, perhaps they'll even encourage Anne to stare just a little. She finishes off her look with a quick touch of black eyeliner, matching mascara, and a bit of matte lipstick in a shade of french rose.

“You look incredible,” Catherine compliments as she helps with the final touches – a coral clutch, strappy pink heels, and the lightest touch of curls at the ends of her otherwise wavy hair.

Ann's not accustomed to flattery, but even she admits she looks pretty fantastic as she admires her reflection one last time. “I'll text you when I get home,” she promises as she tosses her mobile phone, identification, and various cards into her clutch.

“_If_ you get home tonight,” Catherine teases. “Don't worry about me. I'm sure I'll get all the juicy details soon.”

“Thank you again. I really appreciate all of...” Ann waves her hand up and down in front of her, “_this_. I know I'm a pain sometimes but-”

“You're stalling.”

Ann frowns. “No, I'm not.”

“_Yes_, you are. You ramble when you're nervous and if you don't get your arse out this door, you're going to be late so _go_.” Catherine smacks Ann's butt playfully and practically pushes her out of the apartment. Before Ann has much of a chance to say anything in her own defense, Catherine's closed and locked the door in her face, and she's left with no more excuses to hide behind. Overwhelmingly nervous and a little unsteady on her heels, Ann makes her way to the train station and hopes to whatever god there may be that she doesn't make a complete fool of herself.

**-x-x-x-**

Lucky for her, Ann's travel plans actually go according to plan. She arrives at _The Shibden_ fifteen minutes earlier than she'd expected, which gives her just enough time to find the courage to walk inside and find Anne in the lobby. Beneath the outside awning, she smooths the front of her dress down and does one last check in the camera of her phone. The line of her lipstick is clean, nothing smudged on her face or teeth, and the smoky eye she's gone for still looks appropriately...well..._smoky_. There's nothing to fix except a few stray strands of hair that have fallen from their pin at the back of her head. She looks good – _beautiful_, even – and there's no other excuse she can give not to walk inside.

The lobby of _The Shibden_ is absolutely stunning at night, lit to perfection by the gorgeous chandeliers that reflect in the pristine marble floor below. But even they pale in comparison to how breathtaking Anne looks. It's cliché as hell, but the surrounding crowd of guests seem to fade away from Ann's vision and there is suddenly no one but Anne Lister there, practically glowing beneath the shimmering crystal above her. The hints of light brown highlights in her hair stand out more than usual with the poker straight hairdo Anne's chosen for the night, parted crisply down the middle with a swoop of bangs pinned back behind her ear. The line of diamonds along her earlobe are similar to those from the afternoon of the book signing, but with the addition of an onyx stud with a large matching ring on her middle finger.

And her suit. _Oh_, her suit.

Unlike the other solid-colored options she's previously worn, tonight's ensemble features thin white pinstripes throughout. There's a single button fastened at her slim waist, but the hint of a heart-shaped black bodice still shows through at her breast-line, and no, Ann isn't staring, she's _definitely_ not staring at the thin scarlet tie that's dangling loosely around her neck and down the curve of her chest, and she's _definitely_ not grateful that Anne's looking in the opposite direction, possibly daydreaming or preoccupied by the pianist playing light jazz nearby. And the world definitely doesn't feel like it's moving in slow motion when Anne finally turns her head and makes eye contact, curls her mouth into a smile that seems to resonate in every feature when she recognizes Ann standing there in her pretty pink lace dress.

Then the tempo of the world seems to pick up suddenly again, and the crowds flood in and the room is buzzing but she can still hear the soft breathy “Ann” as it falls from Anne's lips when she joins her near the door. There's a compliment of some kind and then Anne's arm is around her waist, leading her back out onto the pavement and yet she still can't quite think straight, the words caught somewhere between her lungs and her throat. Ann's never been more grateful for the crisp London air that finally seems to snap her back into reality.

“Are you ok with walking to dinner? It isn't far from here, but I could dial a cab if you'd rather not.”

“Walking sounds perfect,” Ann assures.

“I hope the ride down didn't give you too much trouble this time.”

“Oh, not at all. I suppose I got lucky this time.” They're side-by-side now, but Ann's still shamelessly staring, still awestruck by how fine Anne looks. She isn't quite sure what exactly to compliment first. “Your shoes.”

Anne laughs under her breath and kicks the heel of her boot against the concrete. “Yes?”

“They're very nice. You look very...” Stunning. Handsome. Pretty. There are so many options, but all Ann can seem to come up with is - “nice.”

“Thank you. You look very _nice _yourself.”

Anne's teasing now, and it should hurt her feelings a bit, but the compliment behind it overshadows the playfulness. A bit of shy silence falls over them on the remainder of their walk, but once seated at their table with menus in hand, Anne's polite enough to take control with some meal suggestions, and god, is Ann grateful for _that_.

“I highly recommend the Pad Thai if you're new to these types of flavors.” Anne smiles over the paper trifold in her hands. “Or the Masaman if you're looking for something with a little more spice.”

Playing it safe, she orders the Pad Thai with chicken. By Anne's recommendation, they also choose a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon to share. When each glass is properly filled, Anne takes a slow sip from her own to taste, and Ann watches helplessly as the muscles in her throat flex as she swallows.

“I stumbled upon here during one of my first business trips to London,” Anne explains, setting her wine glass back down onto the table. “It was my first real book tour and I was looking for something that wasn't room service or overpriced coffee. I needed somewhere to just think and be alone without my agent looking over my shoulder and so I slipped into here late one night, expecting to grab a quick little side dish or something and I ended up just falling in love with the place.”

“Do you travel to London often?” Ann asks, trying to make polite enough conversation.

“Not as often as I'd like. I grew up in the north, and I never really had the opportunity to travel as a child. Now most of my travel revolves around book signings and press tours and...” Anne sighs. “What about you? Have you always called London home?”

“I grew up in Halifax. Spent most of my summers at Crow Nest Park.”

“We would have been neighbors then,” Anne smiles. “In another life, perhaps. What brought you to London?”

Ann tenses. It's been almost a decade, but the subject of her family is a wound that's never fully healed – and really, does that type of pain ever go away? It takes half of her first glass and a minute or so of awkward silence before she's found the courage to answer. “When I was 16,” she begins, “my family moved south for business. As a gift from my father, my mum opened _Lightcliffe Books_ as a passion project and a sort of homage to my childhood home. And it became very successful in a short period of time. I think my mother might have been a little overwhelmed but in a way, she loved it. She poured her heart and soul into it and became very close with a lot of the locals.” Ann shifts anxiously in her seat. “When I was 19, my parents died in a car crash.”

“Oh Ann,” Anne exhales. “I'm so sorry.”

“I was barely an adult and I didn't know how to handle it or how to cope after it happened. I had all of this sudden authority and a business that was thriving. They'd set me up for success but I was too selfish to understand it at the time. So I ran and moved back north. It was a few months later when I received a letter from a former customer telling me all of the fond memories they'd had of my mother and the shop, and how she was so sad to see it closing. The whole place had apparently fallen into disrepair, and I don't know why that came as such a shock to me. No one was really managing it and I realized in that moment that my mother would have been completely ashamed of me.”

Anne shakes her head. “It wasn't your fault though. Surely you must know that? Grief can be such a difficult thing to process, especially for someone so young.”

“Gosh, this is such terrible dinner conversation, isn't it?” Ann laughs nervously and reaches for the bottle of wine between them to pour herself another glass, taking the time to top Anne's off as well. “Long story short, I eventually moved back here and I've been running the shop ever since. Trying my best to live up to the expectation she set.”

“Well, if it means anything at all, I think you've done a marvelous job.” Anne's hand is suddenly over hers, a soothing stroke of fingers back and forth along her palm, and any bit of sadness she might be feeling quickly fades away. “You've already been a tremendous help in finding Oneill's book for me. It's been invaluable in my research. You wouldn't believe how quickly some of these go out of print.”

“Do you have a list? I might be able to get my hands on some of them for you through the shop. Or we could go hunting for them together.” Ann bites her lips and looks away. How _desperate_ she must sound, already trying to plan another meeting before this one's come to an end.

But Anne looks just as excited by it as she is. “That sounds like a wonderful idea.” She grabs her mobile phone from the pocket of her suit and makes what appears to be a note to herself. “If I send you the list, would you be able to take a look sometime this week?”

“It will be my top priority,” Ann promises a little too eagerly. “Can I at least get a hint about what it is you're working on?”

“Fiction.” It's quick, to-the-point. Anne leans back in her seat with her glass in hand, swirling along the side of it with her index finger. There's a smirk on her face that's just daring Ann to ask for more.

But two can certainly play that game. She might be shy, but Ann also knows how to flirt in her own weird way. She raises an eyebrow and waits for Anne to continue.

“Try to keep your enthusiasm to a minimum, dear,” Anne teases. “I tried my hand at fiction at the beginning of my career. It...” she squints, “did not go very well.”

“I'm sure you're just being hard on yourself. I'd love to read anything you've written.”

“Lucky for me, I'm sure all five copies of that disaster have disappeared from existence,” Anne laughs. “But this novel is just...it's speaking to me in ways my writing hasn't in a long time. I'm only researching and outlining right now but _god_, I'm excited about it. You should see the mess that is my notebook. Scribbling in the corners and the margins. It's practically in _code_. You'd think I was mad.”

“Never,” Ann assures.

“My agent does.” The light in Anne's eyes seems to fade at the subject. “Mariana is....less than pleased with the idea. I haven't told her much, just that I'm working on something different. Not that it will really stop me anyway.” She shrugs. “You'll learn quickly that I do not like being told what to do.” And there it is again – the confidence and the color in her cheeks and that smile, god, that _smile_. Anne winks. “In _most _things, anyway.”

“If it makes you happy, I think you should go for it.”

“What makes _you_ happy, Ann?”

What a loaded question. Ann's never been more grateful for the waitress who arrives with their food, cutting the conversation and tension short.

Dinner is delicious. Ann's never really been one to go out of her comfort zone when it comes to food, but the spices and flavor are phenomenal. She practically devours her meal, and when Anne suggests a dessert to share afterward, she certainly doesn't say no.

“I'm sure you've had coconut ice cream before, but trust me when I tell you that you've never had anything like _this_.” Anne scoops a bit up onto one spoon and offers it over. “Open up.”

Ann's whole body feels like it's short circuiting, because not only is Anne Lister out on a date with her but she's trying to feed her, and oh lord, the probability that she's going to pass the fuck out is rather high. Somehow, though, she manages to open her mouth enough for Anne to lightly rest the cold metal utensil against her tongue to take a taste. It's delectable – sweet, creamy, with a hint of crunch where the coconut is churned in throughout.

“Final consensus?”

“_So good_,” Ann practically moans, which only makes Anne chuckle more in delight.

“Easily satisfied, then. I'd call this meal a success, wouldn't you?”

Unsurprisingly, Anne pays the bill. In fact, she'd clearly planned it before they'd even arrived, because the only item the waitress comes out with at the end of the night is a final receipt for Anne to sign. It's flattering, but also _sneaky_, and Ann vows to make it up to her in one way or another.

By the time they finally leave _Lotus_, the sun has long set and a deep chill has set in the air. Ann shivers instinctively, tries and fails miserably to hide the fact that she is freezing cold in short, pink lace.

“Poor thing,” Anne coos. “You must be freezing. Here.” In one swift movement, she pulls the suit jacket over her arms and places it delicately across Ann's shoulders.

“Oh I couldn't,” Ann refuses. “Honestly, it's-”

“Hush. Walk me home.”

And so they stroll. Ann's struck by the sight of Anne's arms and shoulders, bare beside the heart-shaped bodice she's chosen to wear beneath her suit and the red tie that hangs from her neck. The muscles are toned and accentuated in just the right places, and when Anne catches her staring, she wants nothing more than to disappear into the shadows in complete and utter embarrassment. As they approach _The Shibden_, Anne stops her suddenly with a gentle tug at her wrist. Face-to-face, she admires the strong shadows along Anne's cheekbones from the lights overhead. It may simply be her imagination, but Anne seems to be moving closer, and then her hand is at her neck, tilting her head upward, and oh, Anne is going to kiss her, and her heart is beating so fast and her vision is blurry and her ears are ringing. Anne's thumb strokes along her jaw once, twice, until it slides up to swipe over her lower lip with the lightest pressure.

“Goodnight Ann,” she whispers.

Anne's disappeared into the lobby of the hotel before she properly comes to again, left shaken on the streets of London in Anne Lister's suit jacket with the promise of a kiss across her lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm obsessed with the above gesture. You're welcome.
> 
> As someone who lost a parent I was very close to as a young adult, let me tell you - sometimes it's hard not to word vomit the entire story when someone inadvertently brings it up. I've poured a bit of myself here into Ann's dinner rambling :)
> 
> Love it? Hate it? Leave your thoughts below. I love chatting with you all.


	6. Chapter 6

The rest of the night is a blur. Ann barely remembers getting back to the train station, and by the time she arrives at her stop, she's dizzy from the scent of Anne's perfume at her shoulders where the pinstripe suit jacket still lays. She's back home by half past 10, and while a typical Friday night might find her on the couch with a book or asleep in bed already, Ann's bubbling with excitement and far from tired. She's itching to tell Catherine _everything_, but reigns herself in with a simple “_I'm home_” text as promised.

Back in her bedroom, Ann hangs Anne's pinstripe suit jacket in the back of her wardrobe for safekeeping. She'll return it, of course, but the idea of having some of Anne's clothing mixed in with hers is certainly an intriguing one. In the midst of wiggling herself out of her pink dress – _why on Earth did a neck to waist zipper ever seem like a good idea_, she grumbles – Ann's mobile phone buzzes from where she's tossed it on the bed. She expects it to be Catherine, begging for details or making some comment about her being home so soon, but is surprised and undeniably smitten by what she finds instead.

**A.L.: ** _Home safely?_

It isn't just _what _Anne's sent, although it certainly makes butterflies flutter deep in her stomach. But it's the concept that Anne – late at night, alone in her hotel room – is thinking of her, concerned enough for her wellbeing to send such a text. In a way, it makes Ann feel a little less embarrassed by her own thoughts and the fact that Anne has barely left them since they've met.

_Just fifteen minutes ago. _

**A.L: ** _Off to bed now?_

On an ordinary Friday, perhaps, but between the half a bottle of red wine she's consumed and the sense memory of Anne's fingertips across her lips, the only bed that sounds appealing to her at the moment sits several floors up at _The Shibden_.

_Not quite yet. Think I'll have a bath first._

She means it innocently enough – or perhaps there's a part of her that doesn't. It all depends on how Anne interprets it, and whatever boldness may come across, Ann's happy enough to take credit for it in her slightly tipsy state; she'll deal with any embarrassment in the morning.

**A.L:** _Will you? Perhaps I'll join you there._

_God_, what she would give. Of course Anne won't _actually_ join her, not there in person at least, but the suggestion leaves a particular mental image that makes Ann practically ache. Surely Anne's toying with her now – trying to rile her up with a bit of teasing? Ann chews her lower lip in contemplation and reads the message again several times over. Definitely flirting, she decides. But how to respond? Ann leaves the message on read for awhile to draw a bath (and perhaps, in part, to torture Anne with her silence). While the water's running, she slips off the little she's still wearing, then grabs her towel, robe and phone. She checks the temperature with a delicate dip of her toe, and, finding it to her liking, Ann settles into the water with a sigh.

Dinner went well. Surprisingly well. Not that she has much of a history to compare it to, but she takes Anne's almost-kiss and subsequent text messages as a sign that she's done _something _right. If she closes her eyes, she can see Anne's face near hers again, eyes sparkling as she inches closer, then closer still, until...

Ann reaches for the bottle of bubbles beside her and pours. She swirls her fingers across the top of the water until the bath fills with lemon and lavender scented soap that is vaguely reminiscent of Anne's perfume. Shielded by a veil of bubbles, she grabs her phone and snaps a _mostly _tasteful picture. It's decent enough, the majority of the image being purple-tinted foam and the surrounding bath, but a hint of skin where her knees and toes peek out of the water offer _just enough_ if Anne's looking for it. And if not – well, at least her pedicure looks cute.

_I'm sure your bath is all luxury, but does it have purple bubbles? _Ann includes her photo with the message.

There's a flicker of three bouncing notification dots that appear and disappear over the course of several minutes. By 11, the lack of response makes Ann unbelievably anxious, and the rush of post-date adrenaline quickly shifts from that of excitement to panic, suddenly terrified that she's blown it by being too forward. Discouraged, Ann tosses her phone aside and sinks below the water until the uncomfortable burn in her lungs forces her to eventually come up for a breath.

**-x-x-x-**

Catherine's barrage of text messages the next morning asking about the dinner date don't exactly help lift Ann's spirits. She chooses to ignore them until she's feeling slightly less sour, or has at least come to terms with having potentially ruined at the very least, a blossoming friendship.

Saturday morning at _Lightcliffe Books_ is unusually busy, which leaves her with little time for self pity. Sophie (barely) manages the checkout while Ann bounces back and forth between assisting customers on the floor and unboxing new stock. It's a welcome distraction, one that prevents her from obsessively checking her phone every few minutes for a text from Anne. Daydreaming is also out of the question, so the sound of Anne's voice at the front counter certainly isn't in her imagination.

“Is Miss Walker in?”

Ann peaks around the corner to watch the exchange, amused by the look of confusion on Sophie's face and overwhelmed that Anne has come to visit her at the shop.

“Who?”

“Ann Walker?”

“Oh, Ann. Yeah she's,” Sophie waves toward the bookshelves at the back left of the store, “somewhere back there.”

Anne turns her head, looks in the direction Sophie's pointing, and there's a split second of eye contact between them before Ann ducks back into the aisle to compose herself. She'll play it cool, of course, hide the fact that she's been utterly distraught all night at the idea that she's ruined it all with one seemingly innocent picture. Burying her nose in one of the books at her disposal, Ann turns her back to Anne, because her heart definitely isn't racing, and her palms definitely aren't sweating, and she's definitely not listening for the sound of Anne's boots against the hardwood as she approaches.

“Ann.”

How is it that a name so short and plain can sound so special when it falls from the right set of lips?

“Hello there,” Ann responds, offering a sweet smile but still keeping composed despite that fact she's internally _screaming_.

“I don't suppose you have plans for your lunch hour today?”

“I'm here for another hour, but then-” Ann re-homes the book she's fake-reading and turns to Anne, finally getting a good look at her beneath the soft light of the shop. In straight-legged dark slacks and a navy blue v-neck to match, Anne's looking a bit more casual than usual, but the jacket that finishes her look – with baby blue accents at the color and pockets – elevates it to true Anne Lister style. There's a touch of waves at the end of her hair, as though she'd slept with it wet or left it to air dry after a bath, and Ann wants nothing more in the moment than to card her fingers through them.

“I'd hoped we could have lunch and visit a bookshop in Kensington? It appears they have a used and slightly damaged copy of a book on my list and I thought-” Anne stops herself. “Unless you have other plans?”

It's too difficult to play the cool and collected one when Anne's proposed such an excursion. The damage from her sultry little picture must not have been that long-lasting with such an invitation, and so Ann falls prey to her own excitement once again. “No plans at all. I'd love to come.”

“You wouldn't mind if I browse around here for a bit while I wait, would you? Or I could come back if-”

“No, no! Enjoy yourself. There's a seat in the back if you want to relax.”

The final hour of Ann's shift is excruciating. Regardless of the task she tries to distract herself with, her focus still shifts back to Anne where she sits in the corner with a paperback in her hands. One leg lays draped over her other at the knee, and although it's rather impolite, Ann finds it impossible not to stare. She watches as Anne reads, entranced by the little flutter of eyelashes as her eyes move back and forth from line to line, or the way Anne's index finger taps against the armrest in a steady (and likely unconscious) rhythm.

A whole hour of this will be absolute torture. What's the point of being the boss if she can't bend the rules every so often? Ann tosses in the towel a little after 1. “Ready?”

There's a genuine look of surprise on Anne's face when she looks up to find Ann standing across from her with her coat and handbag in tow. “So soon?”

She nods quickly a few times. “Yes. I-I'm-yes. Yes. I'm ready.”

Ann beams. “Off we go then.”

**-x-x-x-**

Their taxi ride takes significantly longer than it should on account of horrendous traffic around Royal Albert Hall. Anne's annoyed and apologetic, as though she somehow controls the streets of London, and Ann assures her more than once that it's no bother to her at all. In truth, had Anne not invited her out, she'd likely have spent the rest of the day at home worrying that she'd ruined absolutely everything with her tipsy texts and obvious failure at flirting. But Anne doesn't mention it at all, opting to instead make conversation about where exactly they will find lunch.

Eventually, they settle on a little teashop a few blocks away from the bookshop they're planning to visit. Ann orders a cream cheese sandwich with cucumbers on brown bread, while Anne decides on a simple pot of citrus ginger tea. Being the only one to eat makes Ann a bit self conscious, but after finding a table, Anne assures her there's nothing to worry about. “I don't often eat lunch,” she explains. “A bad habit, but when you're on the go as much as I am.” Anne shrugs. “You can only eat quick serve salads and pastries for so long before you just decide to forgo it altogether.”

“Does your suite have a kitchenette?”

“Barely, and you'd think for the price that it would. Perhaps the accommodations in Manchester will offer me one but, honestly, I'm not much of a homemaker so the likelihood of my using it is,” Anne chuckles, “rather slim.”

“Manchester?” The bite of cucumber she's working through suddenly seems particularly difficult to swallow.

“I'm leaving for there tomorrow afternoon.”

The pain on Ann's face must be so easily read, because Anne sets her tea down and reaches for Ann's hand in an instant, giving it a squeeze as she coos. “Oh, sweet Ann, I'll only be gone for five days. Don't look so discouraged.”

Ann laughs nervously, blinking back the mess of tears that burn the corner of her eyes. “I'm not discouraged,” she lies. “I hope you have a wonderful time there.”

“I won't,” Anne answers flatly, draping one arm over the back of her chair. “Mariana insists I stop there for a few days of press. It's pretty enough there, but-” She shrugs. “I'm hoping to use the travel time to start writing, which reminds me.” Arching her hips forward, she pulls out a slip of yellow note paper from her back pocket, and Ann barely has to look at it to recognize Anne's handwriting all across it. “I've written out another copy of my list for you to keep. Last night you'd offered to help find some of them?” She raises an eyebrow and waits on Ann.

“Oh, yes, of course.” At a glance, nothing on the list rings any bells, but that's not surprising with how obscure some of the titles appear to be. Still, she'll check the databases when she's back at the shop on Monday and do the very best she can to complete Anne's collection. “Let me see what I can do.”

“Wonderful. You're a godsend Ann, really.”

“It's nothing, honestly,” Ann assures.

But that, of course, is a lie, because helping Anne with her research means _everything_ to her. It allows her to feel useful again, to have a purpose beyond recommending provocative little romance novels for Mrs. Priestley and her gaggle of gossiping friends.

_Long Oak_ is a nice enough bookshop. Ann's biased, of course, partial to her own little slice back in the heart of London, but she tries not to let that cloud her judgement as they enter sometime mid-afternoon. There's a delightful little sketch of two hummingbirds hanging on the wall to the right of the doorway, and Ann stops to admire it for a moment while Anne waits in line at the counter to ask about the book they're searching for.

“Good afternoon. We're in search of _Sunset_ by Janette Winterson and rumor has it you have your hands on a rather shoddy copy of it. Would you be able to-”

“You're Anne Lister, aren't you?” The desk clerk is practically squeaking with excitement, and Ann can't help but eavesdrop on their conversation from a few steps away. “I'm sorry. I went to a reading of one of your books back in Leicester a year or so ago. You made quite the impression.” Out of the corner of her eye, Ann watches the young woman tuck a few strands of hair behind her ear, offering a glance at her ringless left hand. “I'm sorry, I'm sure you hear that all the time but-”

“I get recognized less often than you think,” Anne laughs politely. “Perk of being a writer is that it's our words in the spotlight, not our faces.”

“Yet you surely have a memorable one,” the clerk compliments, and oh, that's the icing on the cake as far as Ann is concerned.

There's no reason for her to be jealous. Anne's not really buying into whatever this girl is selling, and even if she was, Anne is _not_ her girlfriend or her wife, and she certainly has no business telling her who she can or cannot flirt with. But the ache in her chest doesn't let up until Anne signals for her with an outstretched hand and tugs her along to whatever aisle the flirty little employee has directed her to.

“What's the last name again?” Ann asks as they settle in the middle. Anne takes one side while she focuses on the other, and that's probably for the best so Ann can compose herself, swallow the unflattering bit of jealousy that's brought a bit of red to her cheeks.

“Winterson,” Anne relays. “I think it's going to be on your side.”

And suddenly Anne's turned in her direction, joining her in the search for the elusive copy of _Sunset_. But rather than stand beside her, Anne's just a step behind her instead, one hand at her waist while the other runs along the spine of each book on the shelf. The titles and authors suddenly become a blur, and all Ann can focus on is the press of Anne's fingers at her hip and the tickle of breath across the back of her neck.

“I think I've found it,” Anne hums. She points to the shelf right in front of where Ann is standing frozen, paralyzed, and while Anne could easily ask her to move, she tucks her head close instead, cheek almost pressed against cheek, and whispers, “mind grabbing it for me?”

Somehow, perhaps by reflex, Ann manages to pick up the book from its place on the shelf. It's a tattered little thing, practically falling apart in her hands, but when she looks back and offers it over her shoulder, Anne's face lights up so brightly that Ann's determined from here on out to find every single book on that list if only to see Anne so _genuinely_ happy with each reveal.

**-x-x-x-**

“I will call you as soon as I'm back,” Anne promises as their ride approaches _The Shibden._

_I'll miss you, _Ann's desperate to say. “Travel safely” is what she manages instead, and it’s hardly the romantic parting out of the novels she's read, but it's better than the embarrassing clinginess she's not quite yet ready to admit.

When the taxi comes to a stop, Anne's looking at her again, a bit of melancholy on her face that shows just how little she wants to leave. She cups Ann's face tenderly with one hand, strokes along the small indent of a dimple on Ann's cheek. Ann's less than subtle in the way her eyes flicker down to Anne's lips, a silent cue that she is ready, she is willing if Anne will give it to her.

But all Anne offers before making her exit is a soft stroke of fingers through blonde curls and a quiet “be good” that rings in Ann's ears for the rest of her ride home.

**-x-x-x-**

In true enough fashion, Ann's a bit of a mess for the rest of the weekend. How on Earth she could feel so heartsick already is truly a mystery, but she has fallen hard and fast, and there's little to think of but the 5 excruciatingly long days ahead of her.

On Saturday night, she tries to read one of Anne's books on her Amazon wish list. She only gets halfway through the first chapter, though, before her mind wanders from the history of the craniotomy to Anne herself. Frustrated and weepy, Ann tosses her tablet aside and determines she will pick up the rest of it when Anne's safely home.

On Sunday - her day off - plans are made with Catherine and then subsequently broken at the last minute when her on-again off-again beau asks her to join him for dinner. Ann – in a baggy pair of sweatpants and a tattered t-shirt from some concert she'd attended long ago – pouts over a bottle of shitty beer and a frozen meal, far too tired and annoyed to take the time to actually cook something for herself. Anne had never promised to text when she's arrived safely in Manchester, but that doesn't stop Ann from incessantly checking for it. A little after 11, somewhere between a rerun of _Casualty_ and the _Weekend News: Late Night_, Ann's started to nod off, and it's not the _chime_ of her phone but the buzz of it against where it lays pressed against her leg that eventually wakes her. Bleary-eyed, she taps on her screen to make out the notification.

_ **A.L: 1 new message.** _

Ann clears the sleep from her eyes with her knuckles before opening Anne's message. It isn't simply a message, though. There's a photo accompanying it, with well-manicured nails holding a glass of red wine and flash of bare leg where it's bent slightly above bubbly bath water. Like Ann's own photo, everything is strategically placed, and Ann's heart practically leaps out of her chest as she studies every pixel of the photo and the message that comes alongside it.

_Arrived an hour or so ago. No purple bubbles here, unfortunately, but I've made do. There's still something missing though. Perhaps you can guess what._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment below with your thoughts, and thank you so much to every single person who has read, commented, kudo-ed, bookmarked, or subscribed :) xo


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The longest chapter yet! Thank you for being patient with me, but I hope you'll find it was worth the extra wait ;)

Monday morning is a struggle. Ann shouldn't be surprised, but that doesn't stop her from grumbling at the sound of her 5AM alarm clock. She's got no one to really blame but herself for being this exhausted; maybe Anne just a _little_, teasing and flirty 4 hours away in Manchester, but Anne certainly didn't force her to stay up all night staring at her picture, struggling to determine exactly how to respond (beside the initial _askdfajk_ that first came to mind).

“You look like hell,” Catherine says flatly when Ann arrives at the shop, commenting not-so-subtly on the wrinkled pink button up and black leggings Ann's managed to slap together as a just-barely-acceptable-for-work ensemble. “Long night?”

“Yes, although it's not what you're thinking.”

Catherine smirks. “Mmhmm. And how is darling Al doing? I'll assume from your text message Saturday night that there was no delightful walk of shame?”

“Some of us aren't trying to fall into bed on the first date,” Ann remarks.

Catherine shrugs. “Did you at least get a goodnight kiss?”

“Almost.”

“Almost? Christ, Ann, I'm in misery _for_ you!”

“And what about you?” Diversions, Ann decides, are the best way to duck out of the rather unwanted exchange, and if there's one thing Catherine loves to talk about, it's herself. “Do I want to ask what was on the menu for your last minute dinner date last night?”

True to form, Catherine certainly doesn't hesitate to tell her all about it, and Ann's grateful enough for the shift in conversation. That doesn't stop her from tuning most of it out though, having already heard the same story and sordid details when it was John – and Michael before that – and David before _that_ – and –

She's jealous. Ever actually admitting that is completely out of the question, but Ann stews quietly behind the counter as Catherine continues to prattle on. It's not the date itself that she's envious of – the mere thought of _that_ could put her off lunch _and_ dinner – but how freely Catherine talks of it. There is so much she wants to tell – about how they met and how talented Anne is, or just how _fine_ she looked at dinner in her pinstripe fitted suit, or how the feel of Anne's hand at her waist turns her to complete and utter mush. But men can be so rough and inconsiderate, and how could someone as accustomed to them as Catherine possibly understand the way someone as beautiful as Anne makes her heart ache?

Despite checking regularly throughout the day, there's no word from Anne. That certainly doesn't stop Ann from daydreaming of her, though – imagining what exciting thing she may be up to in that very moment. Perhaps it's a book reading similar to _Waterstones_, or maybe some fancy party with colleagues, the intent of it to network but the reality being nothing more than an opportunity to bitch and gossip. Any formal event would inevitably find Anne in one of her best suits, and the mental image of her in a custom-fit black tuxedo and crisp white button up is enough to get Ann through the loneliest of nights.

Once Catherine has left for the day and no longer looms nosily over her shoulder, she grabs Anne's handwritten list from her handbag to compare against the local database of books. There are two matches in Brentford that can easily be sent overnight to the shop, and a few others from Cambridge available by Friday. _Briggs Used Books_ in Kent has many of the out-of-print items Anne's interested in, but with no online shop option, obtaining them will require a bit of a train ride – one that Ann is, unsurprisingly, more than willing to take.

**-x-x-x-**

The train ride south on Tuesday morning is uneventful. With enough staff to handle the small weekday morning crowd at _Lightcliffe_, a quick trip to Kent seems acceptable, and if anyone asks, she'll say it was a business matter. It's been ages since she's traveled much more than half an hour outside of the city alone, and there's a strange bit of excitement in the pit of her stomach when she finally arrives at _Briggs Used Books_ a quarter after 9. Even while hours away, Anne's somehow managed to spark an uncharacteristic sense of adventure in her.

While _Lightcliffe_ mostly specializes in new releases with only a few sections dedicated to the discounted donations they occasionally receive, the shelves of _Briggs Used Books_ are stocked solely with a wide array of secondhand items, and from the moment Ann steps through the front door, she feels like a kid in a candy store. The shop isn't particularly large, but she's certain she could spend the entire day browsing.

“Are you looking for something in particular?”

Ann smiles warmly at the middle-aged woman at the front counter. “I am, actually. There's a list of items I'm looking for and I was hoping you might be able to point me in the right direction.” She unfolds the handwritten list and slides it across the checkout glass. While the employee checks the system for where each book may be categorized in the shop (on an ancient, bulky, lime green Macintosh that's at least 20-years-old and a marvel even being able to power on), Ann fingers through a collection of books posed on a shelf opposite the counter. One particular hardback about Marie Curie suddenly brings a certain author to mind. “You don't happen to have anything by Anne Lister here, do you?” she asks over her shoulder.

The employee beckons her back over with a wave. “Here's your original list,” she begins, handing it back over to Ann. “I've made notes on which sections you'll find them under. If you need me to walk through with you, I can-”

“No no,” Ann assures. “This is more than enough. I'm sure I'll be able to find them from here.”

“As for your other question – is the name with or without an 'e'?”

“With.”

A few taps on a keyword, and then - “The only match we have is one in the historical fiction section. Title is _Evening Hour_. Copyright 1999.”

“Oh, the person I'm thinking of actually only writes non-fic-” Ann stops herself, suddenly remembering the brief mention of Anne's first novel during their dinner date. “Nevermind. Thank you so much for your help.”

With a bit of direction now, Ann breezes her way through the aisles, quickly filling a hand basket with her selections. Most are from Anne's research list, but a few others spark her interest along the way as she browses, and at barely £1 a piece, she isn't exactly breaking the bank with a few extra purchases. The only thing left is the addition of _Evening Hour _if she's able to find it.

The fiction section of the bookshop is packed tightly with books of all shapes and sizes. There's much more of a collection on this side than the other, and Ann briefly contemplates spending another hour perusing this side of the store. But there's only so much she can carry alone on the train, so she limits herself to one novel in particular. Situated three shelves up in the center case, Ann finds the mysterious copy of _Evening Hour_. It's practically falling apart in her hands when she picks it up – the binding loose and a few pages torn at the corner – but it's decent enough for at least one read. “**A. Lister**” is printed in bright gold lettering beneath the title on the front cover. Ann's not even certain it's the same A. Lister galavanting around Manchester, but for 50 pence, she'll take the risk.

**-x-x-x-**

In the late afternoon, when she's returned home to London and stopped for a quick snack at a local bakery, Ann receives a text message from Anne. It's relatively short and sweet, but that doesn't stop her from grinning like a fool as she reads it over and over at her cafe table.

**A.L: ** _A very busy two days. I hope you don't think I've forgotten you. Enjoying a walk around the garden outside of my hotel when I came across the most beautiful blush-colored roses I had ever seen. I was immediately reminded of you in your dinner dress._

When she finally stops squealing to herself, Ann sends off a quick response.

_Roses are my favorite flower. I hope Manchester is treating you well. London is a little less sunny without you. _

**A.L: ** _I will call you tomorrow night before my dinner engagement. Does 5 work for you?_

Even if it didn't, Ann would clear her schedule in a heartbeat.

_Of course. 5 it is._

She types “_can't wait_” at the end, but – sounding a little too eager – opts to delete it before hitting send.

**-x-x-x-**

For once, Ann's grateful for the distraction _Lightcliffe_ brings her. Without it, she'd be going absolutely mad Wednesday thinking of nothing but the conversation that awaits her at 5. A group of young school children come in for a morning field trip and leave with several copies of _Cat in the Hat _and _Green Eggs and Ham_. When her lunch hour finally arrives, Ann's actually shocked by how fast the day's already gone. She enjoys a sandwich and assorted fruit in the stock room during her break, but just when she's finally relaxed enough to crack into the first chapter of _Evening Hour_, Catherine rushes in, clapping her hands and screeching excitedly. “Oh my god. Oh my god. _Oh. My. God_.”

“Use your words,” Ann begs sarcastically.

“You have to come out here and see what he sent you. Oh my god, Ann. You didn't tell me he – well, just come look!”

Ann sits still, raising an eyebrow suspiciously. “What on Earth are you-”

“Just come on.”

And even if she wanted to stay, it's no longer an option as Catherine drags her by the wrist to the front where a large bouquet of baby pink roses sit. There's a bit of matching ribbon tied around the stems and a small white card nestled in the curve of the bow. Ann's hands shake as she picks it up to read.

_Pretty in pink. - AL xoxo_

“You didn't tell me he was such a romantic!” Catherine gushes after peeking at the note over Ann's shoulder. “Well done!” she adds with a playful nudge.

The attention is a bit of a foreign concept to her, but that doesn't stop Ann from grinning like a fool for the rest of the work day. There are countless compliments from customers as they make their purchases, and even when she steps away from the front to work on stock or tidy up, Ann finds herself looking back to the beautiful bouquet behind the counter. It will never survive a train ride home – at least, not with a few bumps and bruises along the way – so she decides to call for a cab ride home when she can finally manage to pry herself away from Catherine's endless questions (of which she answers few, and even those, as vaguely as possible).

“A special occasion?” the driver asks her with a wink as Ann settles in.

“Something like that,” she replies politely. The streets of London rush by her in a blur of color as the cab picks up speed, and silent in the backseat, Ann quickly loses herself in thoughts of Anne – of their upcoming call, of the sweetest surprise she's ever received, and just how much she misses her after only days apart. Pleasantly overwhelmed, she closes her eyes and rests her forehead against the backseat window, the glass feeling wonderfully cool against the hot blush that hasn't left her cheeks since the roses first arrived.

**-x-x-x-**

At a quarter to 5, Ann's phone rings. It's a different tone than she'd expected though, and the anxiety swirls in her chest as she realizes Anne's attempting to not just call, but _video_ chat. In the few seconds she has before the call drops, she runs her fingers through her hair and gives herself a quick pat down, then situates the phone at the most flattering angle she can manage with the short notice.

Anne's face comes on screen a few seconds before her own, and god, how unfair it is that she can look so stunning despite the horrendous quality of FaceTime. “Hello there,” she greets, her voice low but warm.

“Hi.” Barely more than a syllable in and her voice already shakes.

“You look very fine today,” Anne compliments with a slight tilt of her head. “Special plans?”

“Oh.” Ann looks down at her outfit – a long sleeve magenta blouse and a pair of black slacks on account of the scheduled field trip earlier in the morning. She'd even gone out of her way to find a matching lip gloss that has mostly worn off by now, but of course Anne notices the trace of it nevertheless. “There was a bit of an event at the shop today.”

“Was there? Tell me about it.”

“Just a group of school children there for a visit. Nothing all that interesting. They were very sweet. It's always heartwarming to see them so young and interested in reading.”

“I'm sure you were an excellent host.”

“There was a bit of other excitement today,” Ann adds.

Anne raises her eyebrows and smirks. “Oh?”

“Someone sent me a beautiful bouquet of pink roses.” Carrying her phone to the entryway of her apartment, Ann situates herself so the flowers are in view behind her.

“They really are stunning,” Anne compliments playfully. “Whoever sent them has excellent taste.”

“Thank you Anne,” she offers sincerely. “No one has ever done something so sweet like this for me before. These must have cost a small fortune to deliver overnight.”

“Nevermind that. I'm just pleased to hear you like them.”

“I _love_ them.” And yes, of course she's only talking about the bouquet, but there's still a blush of embarrassment that creeps up the back of her neck at what it _could_ mean. “Where are you off to tonight?” she asks in an attempt to divert the conversation away from the 'l' word she's just used.

“A dinner party, which I promise you sounds much more exciting than it is.” Anne pauses to flick back a wave of dark hair that has fallen in front of her face, and it's then that Ann really takes a moment to look at how lovely she looks tonight. Her hair is styled elegantly in its natural long length across her shoulders, a light touch of femininity that contrasts the grey suit she's wearing – or at least, what Ann can make of the top of it through the camera frame. There's a touch of mascara along her eyelashes, but the rest of her face is fresh – bare lips and stunning cheekbones that are a marvel to stare at. “My ride will be here in a moment but I just...” It's the first time she really sees Anne stumble over her words. “I wanted to see you, make sure you are well.”

“I am.”

There's a beat of silence.

“I have a few gifts of my own for you,” Ann adds – anything she can do to draw out the conversation. It's selfish, she knows, but she's desperate for it - desperate for any little bit of Anne she can get. “When you're back in London, perhaps we could meet so I can give them to you in person?”

Anne beams. “Do I get any hint as to what these gifts may be?”

“What's the fun in spoiling it?”

“Miss Walker, you are a _tease_.”

The way Anne's voice drops when she says it, with such an emphasis on _tease_, makes every inch of Ann _throb_. All attempts at a coherent response – flirty or otherwise – crumble into nothing more than a few shaky vowels, yet she's certain Anne's nothing but delighted to watch her struggle, her entire self turned to mush without even the slightest touch.

The loud beep of a car horn brings the both of them back to reality. “I'm afraid I have to go. I will call you tomorrow night when I arrive?”

Ann nods.

“Be good, Ann.” A quick wink, then the screen goes blank.

With Anne clear on her mind, being good is the_ last _thing she wants.

**-x-x-x-**

Thursday finds Ann on the closing shift at _Lightcliffe_. She could just as easily change the schedule for a day off to prepare for Anne's return, but it will only make the time drag agonizingly, so she opts to keep to her planned routine at the shop for the afternoon.

Anne's upcoming arrival puts her in the best mood she's been in days. She uses all the excited energy to her advantage, spending the morning cleaning her apartment and doing her laundry, all while singing and dancing about to the tune of her Spotify playlist – a strange mashup of pop, contemporary R&B, 90's boy bands, and showtunes.

Ann simply can't recall the last time she's truly felt this happy.

With a bit of extra time to spare before her ride into the city, she grabs her copy of _Evening Hour_ from her bag and sprawls out on the sofa. The mystery of whether A. Lister is _her_ A. Lister still remains, but there's nothing stopping her from giving it a read nevertheless. It isn't a particularly long piece, clocking in at only a little over 200 pages, and if it is indeed Anne's writing, she'll at least have a head start when the conversation about it arises.

The styles are certainly similar. The tone of fiction versus non-fiction are expectedly different, but there's a cadence that's distinctly Anne Lister that seems to resonate through the first chapter. Her descriptions of the setting – A New York City jazz club named _Indigo_ in the early 1920's – are so vivid and real, and Ann can easily envision the low lights and hum of music as each detail is relayed. The main characters are introduced quickly: Eliza, a pianist at _Indigo _who struggles to keep her artistry alive after the departure of her lead singer, and Sarah, the young woman who's been temporarily hired to take her place.

_As the houselights dim, Eliza stretches her fingers across the keys, waiting for her cue from the bass. From above, the stage lights cast their spots and shadows, covering the stage in a blue-toned hue that shields most of the audience from her view. She squints, tries to make out the expression on Sarah's face as she approaches the microphone for the first time. The shy, timid girl from backstage seems to disappear all at once as the music swells, and Eliza – relying on her own instinct to play – watches rapt, fascinated by the transformation happening before her. Sarah had been pleasant enough in their little interactions, but when she opens her mouth to sing – hips swaying just slightly to the beat as the first notes fill the room like a swirl of cigarette smoke - Eliza finds herself completely and utterly unnerved. _

If _Evening Hour_ isn't Anne's writing, then she's certainly found her literary clone.

**-x-x-x-**

Rainclouds settle over London as Ann arrives at the shop a little after 5. It starts as a soft patter but quickly evolves into a full storm in less than an hour. On account of the weather, there are no customers, and so Ann decides to send Sophie home for the night and finish the entire closing routine herself. For awhile, she busies herself with a bit of shelving that Sophie's unsurprisingly ignored during the earlier part of her shift. By 8, with the rain still falling steadily, she locks the front door of the shop from the inside while she finishes the remaining tasks – sweeping and organizing and balancing the register for when Catherine arrives Friday morning.

Anne hadn't given her an exact time when she'd be back, but the rain likely doesn't help travel matters. In fact, she wouldn't at all be surprised to find Anne's decided to stay for an extra night and come back in the morning instead. Still, there's unease in the pit of her stomach that something might have gone wrong, and so she sends off a quick text for her own peace of mind.

_Awful storms here. If you're still traveling tonight, please be careful._

She's barely tapped 'send' when a knock comes from the front door of the shop. The storms have brought a sweeping darkness throughout the city, and with the rain coming down more steadily now, Ann can't quite make out who exactly is on the other side of the glass. “We're closed,” she says loudly, pointing to the sign hanging from the window.

Another knock.

Ann unlocks the door and turns the knob slowly, opening the door just enough to peek her head out. “I'm sorry, but we're closed. Are you ok?”

The umbrella that's shielding the stranger's face moves back and away, a rush of water trickling from the edge of it, and the reveal makes Ann do nothing less than gasp. “Anne?”

Anne smiles. “In the flesh.”

“Oh, Anne! I'm so-” She immediately pulls her inside and takes the sopping wet umbrella from her hands. “I'm so sorry. I didn't realize it was you.” Then the reality sets in, and Ann wrinkles her forehead. “What on Earth are you doing here? I thought you were going to call? I thought-”

“Well, that would certainly have ruined the surprise, wouldn't it?” Anne sniffs, brushing away some of the rain that has fallen into her eyes and down the bridge of her nose. Her hair – pulled back to one side in a low pony tail – is lightly covered in fine drops of water, and Ann takes a moment to study every inch of her face, completely enamored by the sheen of Anne's damp skin as the water drips delicately across it.

“How did you know I would be here?”

“I didn't.”

“And you walked all this way in the rain? To see me?”

A flash of teeth as Anne brings her lower lip between them. “I suppose I did.”

“I'm so glad you're here,” Ann breathes, taking a few steps forward to close the little space there is between them. “I've mis-” She stops herself, closes her eyes and holds her breath to try and find the courage to say it.

But Anne is always so receptive. “I've missed you too,” she adds, voice barely above a whisper.

They're staring at each other again, so reminiscent of their date just days before. Ann's eyes follow a droplet of water as it trickles from Anne's hairline to her cheek, then across the line of her jaw, down slowly along the side of her neck where her pulse point lays, until it stops right above her collarbone. Ann stares for a moment, desperate to press her lips there. “Anne.”

“Hmmm?”

“I want...” Her voice is suddenly hoarse, as though any spoken word will instantly crack.

Anne's hands find her face, one cupping her cheek while the other slides down to stroke gently below her jawline. “Yes?”

“I-”

Anne's eyes are wide, sparkling and urging. “Yes?”

“I want to kiss you,” Ann chokes.

“Then kiss me.”

Ann's shaking as she slowly leans in. Delicately, she brushes her lips against Anne's, and oh, the featherlight pressure is enough to send shockwaves through her. She kisses Anne slowly, reveling in the sensation of her lips and the heat of her breath against her mouth. It's light and exquisite and everything she's dreamt it would be.

A moment later, she pulls away, opens her eyes to find Anne's dark. There's a question in the raise of an eyebrow, one that Ann answers with a nod of her head.

And then they are together again, Anne's mouth pressed hotly against hers as her fingers snake through long blonde curls. Anne's hand guides at the back of her neck but never pressures, never forces, and it's Ann who opens her mouth and begs, pleads until Anne can do nothing more than oblige with a swipe of her tongue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment below with your thoughts :)


	8. Chapter 8

Affection is not something Ann's been graced with regularly in her 29 years. The occasional gentle embrace from a dear friend perhaps, or the polite greeting of a peck on the cheek in more formal company, but she's certainly never experienced anything like Anne Lister's kiss or the way it completely unravels her. She is intoxicated, head spinning and skin tingling with every press of lips, of the subtle breath of a moan that comes from somewhere deep within, something repressed that is dying to have its turn in the sun.

When Anne finally breaks their kiss, Ann actually _whimpers_ – quiet and quick, a single sound like that of a kitten, and the smirk and blush it elicits as a reaction from Anne is nothing less than divine. “Tomorrow,” she begins, simultaneously stroking Ann's cheek with her thumb, “will you come to me at _The Shibden_? Room 523. I can tell you all about Manchester and you can give me whatever this gift is.” She tilts her head lightly to one side and smiles. “You didn't think I'd forgotten already?”

“I could visit in the morning before work, if you'll have me so early?”

There's a sparkle of mischief in Anne's eyes. “Yes.” She takes Ann's hands in hers, and the delicate kisses she places across each knuckle make Ann weak in the knees. “Yes. I'll call for breakfast when you arrive.”

Breakfast sounds wonderful, of course, but for now, she's more interested in Anne's mouth - soft, pink, perfectly kiss-swollen from where her own lips had been pressed just a moment ago. Almost by instinct, she leans in slowly, so _slowly_ for a kiss, because she isn't ready to let this end yet, simply can't wait until the morning for another. But Anne's focus shifts suddenly, gently letting Ann's hands down to her side before she pulls her mobile phone from the pocket of her slacks.

“I'm phoning a car ride home for you. It's much too far of a walk to the station in this rain.”

“Ride with me, at least?” Ann implores. It's only a few blocks from _Lightcliffe Books_ to _The Shibden_, but she's desperate for even a few more minutes with Anne.

“I suppose I could,” Anne acquiesces with a smile.

The cab arrives quickly enough. With the rain still falling steadily, Anne offers over her umbrella and even holds open the car door while Ann slides into the back. They sit appropriately apart not to attract the attention of their driver, but Anne still manages to find Ann's pinky, linking them in an intimate gesture that causes a rush of goosepimples to tickle up Ann's arm. Pulling up to the corner light, _The Shibden_ comes into view just outside of the right passenger window, signaling a goodbye she's not quite ready to say. She can smell the perfume on Anne's skin as she leans in and whispers '_goodnight_' into the shell of her ear, and when she has made her exit – slyly slipping a note that will more than cover both of their fares – Ann's not sure just how she'll manage until the morning without Anne beside her.

**-x-x-x-**

With a visit to _The Shibden _on her agenda, Ann's 5AM alarm is far less bothersome than usual. She chooses a pair of tight, medium-wash jeans and a grey v-neck – acceptable enough for work afterward, yet still subtly revealing in a way she hopes Anne will notice. Searching for a cardigan to bring with her to the shop, Ann stumbles upon the pinstripe suit at the back of her wardrobe. Returning it would be the appropriate thing. But carrying it in her bag will leave it hopelessly wrinkled, and that's far from the impression she wants to give – that Anne's belongings mean so little to her, that she'd tossed it aside without any care for it. Shoving her own sweater into the side pocket of her bag, Ann slips into the suit jacket and fastens the single button at the waist of it. It fits her surprisingly well. Certainly elevates the otherwise simple style of her outfit. She'll remove it in the lobby when she arrives there, and Anne will have been none the wiser.

So early in the morning, the Tube is pleasantly quiet as Ann travels into the heart of the city. She passes the time reading the next chapter of _Evening Hour_, and is grateful to have most of the car to herself when A. Lister describes the mounting tension between Eliza and Sarah as they share a post-show drink.

“_Whiskey on the rocks, John,” Eliza orders from her seat at the bar. She turns to Sarah beside her and smirks. “A glass of wine for you, I'll assume?”_

“_Are you suggesting I can't handle anything stronger?”_

“_Is that a yes then?” _

_Sarah grabs the bartender's attention with a flick of her wrist. “I'll take the same.” _

_John hands both shots over to Eliza, who swirls her finger along the edge of the glass before offering one over to Sarah with a smile. Entertainment at its finest, Eliza surmises, watching this poor girl try to rise to her level. There's a lift of an eyebrow as she brings the drink up to her face in a quick toast. “Ready?”_

_Sarah tilts her head back and parts her lips. The whiskey is gone in single gulp, and besides a quick exhale after, there's no wince, no gasp, no cough that Eliza's expected on the girl's part. Sarah locks eyes with her and licks off the bit of alcohol that's still on her lips. _

Ann's on the edge of her seat – literally and figuratively – as the train arrives at the station.

**-x-x-x-**

_The Shibden_ is, of course, stunning as always. She could easily spend an hour just admiring the artwork and décor, but there's someone far more interesting waiting for her on the fifth floor. With several bars and restaurants at the lobby level, as well as a full-service office space and private conference room to book, finding the lift is an excursion in and of itself, but she eventually locates it, albeit a bit frazzled by the time she rushes in and taps repeatedly on the “5” button.

She checks her phone: 8:30. An exact time hadn't been decided upon, but Anne's likely been expecting her for a bit now. Ann rushes down the hall like a fool as soon as the lift doors open, searching frantically for Room 523. She's barely caught her breath when she gives a knock – two quick ones, loud enough to alert but not bother any neighboring rooms. Ann's heart leaps in her chest at the sound of the lock shifting, and in a meager attempt to compose herself, she hastily combs her fingers through her hair until the door swings open.

“Well hello there,” Anne greets with a sparkling smile. “I thought for a moment you might have-” She stops herself short, eyes Ann up and down and hums in amusement. “Just look at _you_.”

The hair on the back of Ann's neck stands, and her palms begin to sweat. It takes a moment to figure out just what Anne's referring to, because it _certainly_ isn't her everyday self, slightly disheveled from her sprint just a second ago. She looks down at her jeans and her bag and – _oh_. “I – I just brought it to return it,” Ann promises, shrugging one arm out of the pinstripe suit jacket. “I didn't want it to get wrinkled so I-”

“Keep it,” Anne winks. Arms crossed at her chest, she rests her hip against the doorframe and takes Ann in in all her frazzled glory. “It looks better on you anyway.”

“Oh, I couldn't,” Ann assures, but the _look_ she gets in response is one that is certainly not to be argued with. She tugs the jacket back on and shifts the strap of her bag higher onto her shoulder – heavy with both _Evening Hour_ and the collection of research she's gathered inside of it.

“Good lord, what do you have in there?” Noticing the struggle, Anne offers a hand, lifting the bag over her own shoulder effortlessly, and Ann definitely doesn't notice the flex of toned muscles at her forearm. “Would you like to come in?”

Ann nods politely and follows as Anne ushers her inside. The door closes with a soft click, and then Anne moves in front of her again, leading her further into the lounge area of the suite. Now in better lighting, she can finally see the full detail of Anne's outfit – casual, or at least what she imagines “casual” is to someone who likely wears power suits to bed. A pair of rather form fitting black pants and a white scoop-neck top should not be this attractive, but she's definitely staring when Anne turns to her again – and by the look of amusement on her face, it doesn't go completely unnoticed. “Make yourself comfortable,” she urges as she sets Ann's bag down beside her. “Any preference for breakfast? I'll order up.”

“Whatever you're having.”

Anne disappears into her bedroom, giving Ann the opportunity to get a good look at the suite. It's smaller than she'd imagined it, but still lavish, from the long, burgundy-colored silk drapes to the hand-carved wood accents throughout. The coffee table is lined with several beautifully bound hardback books with a winding gold flower-pattern across the spine, although she isn't sure whether that is the hotel's doing or Anne's own personal touch.

“Shouldn't be long,” Anne relays as she enters the room again. She situates herself on one side of the main sofa, patting the spot beside her before draping one arm along across the back of the couch.

Happy to oblige, Ann joins her there. There's a light scent of soap on Anne's skin as she moves closer, and only on Anne could something so common make her feel so lightheaded. “H-how was Manchester?”

“Beautiful, but dull otherwise. The company was certainly lacking.” She smiles. “I had a lovely conversation with a saxophonist who was playing at one of the dinner parties I attended. He has lived a_ fascinating_ life. I could write volumes on him. Speaking of which...” Anne reaches for one of the bound books on the coffee table, revealing them to be journals of her own. “I finished _Sunset _on my travels in, taking notes where I could. There's still more research to be done, but I've already managed to draft the first few pages.” Playfully, she leans over and twists her finger through one of the curls along the back of Ann's neck. “You've been a bit of an inspiration, Miss Walker.”

Ann's blushing now, and the way Anne's nails lightly trace her skin certainly isn't helping her keep any semblance of composure. “I-I brought you something that might help.” She carefully pulls the collection of books from her handbag, setting them down one by one on the coffee table for Anne to look at.

“How sweet you are,” Anne coos, picking up the hardback closest to her to inspect it. “You were able to find all of these locally?”

“Some of them. I took a train ride to Kent and visited a lovely used book store-”

Anne shifts her attention away from the book in her hands. “You went all the way to Kent for me?”

_I would go anywhere for you_, Ann wants to admit. “It was nothing. Honestly. I'm happy to help.” But there's still something else, something potentially far more meaningful than a bit of non-fiction. “When I was there, I found another book that I wanted to show you.”

Anne sits a bit taller and raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

She's not exactly sure how to introduce it, so Ann simply pulls the copy of _Evening Hour_ from the bottom of her bag and places it in Anne's lap. The expression on her face is hard to read at first. There's a wrinkle of confusion on her forehead, followed by a shimmer of recognition in her eye, then finally a throaty laugh that makes Ann sigh in relief.

“Where on Earth did you find this?”

“I wasn't sure if it was yours,” Ann explains. “The shop had it catalogued under your name but-”

“I didn't even realize there were still _copies_ of this in circulation.” Like some sort of priceless antique, Anne runs her fingertips tenderly across the first few pages. “Have you read it?”

“A bit.”

“Ah,” Anne says sharply with a click of her tongue.

“You aren't angry, are you? I just thought....I didn't mean to...”

“Oh, Ann.” Tossing the book aside, Anne reaches for her hands, stroking assuringly with her thumb. “How could I ever be angry? Surprised, perhaps. But not angry. I'm flattered that you thought of me.”

“What I've read so far has been wonderful. The club scene in chapter two?”

Anne's mouth curls into a soft smile. “Remind me?”

“Eliza's just bought Sarah another drink, and they've started to discuss how Eliza learned to play.”

“Ah, so they haven't- well, I won't spoil it.”

She's teasing now, mercilessly toying with her. “Oh, you _must_ tell me,” Ann begs.

In response, Anne's hand finds her face, one thumb tucked under her chin while the other strokes along her jaw. “Now darling, where would the fun be in that?”

Ann sighs softly, revels in the feel of Anne's fingers across her skin. The thumb at her jaw slides up to her lower lip, tracing back and forth until she's practically trembling, shaken by the gentle touch and the intensity of Anne's stare.

A knock at the door shatters the moment. Anne leaves to greet the bellhop, making the usual pleasantries until she returns a minute later with the long cart of food. “There's a little bit of everything here,” she explains. “Help yourself.”

And truly, the last thing on Ann's mind now is breakfast, but she'd be rude not to indulge, especially on Anne's tab. She fixes herself a plate of fresh fruit, a piece of buttered toast, and a crisp piece of bacon, while Anne pours herself a cup of tea to go along with a bowl of dry granola. Not wanting to drop even a crumb on the couch, Ann finds a seat at the corner table instead to enjoy her meal; to her delight, Anne quickly follows suit.

They eat mostly in silence, Ann opting not to start any conversation with her mouth full. She can still sense Anne watching her, though, studying each and every move she makes. Tea cup in hand, Anne's finger swirls along the edge of it, dipping up and down the porcelain in a suggestive gesture that quickens Ann's pulse at the very sight of it, reminiscent of the scene from _Evening Hour_ she's read barely an hour before. The notion that she's doing it unconsciously briefly crosses Ann's mind, but the look on Anne's face – as though she's about to devour her at a moment's notice – quickly tosses that likelihood out the window.

“When was the last time you traveled to York?” Anne asks, and the question – so out of the blue, so different than the subtle flirting of the last half hour – takes Ann by surprise.

“Years,” she answers following a bite of toast. “Why?”

Anne casually wipes a crumb from the corner of Ann's mouth. “Join me for lunch in the park tomorrow? There's something I'd like to discuss, but,” she stops to check the watch at her wrist, “You'd mentioned having to work today?”

“My god, I completely-” Ann pulls her phone from her bag to confirm the time. “I'm so sorry. Tomorrow sounds wonderful. I usually take my lunch hour around noon, if that works for you?”

“Of course.”

Like a perfect host, Anne helps her gather her things and walks her to the door. Goodbye hardly seems appropriate with how soon they'll see each other again, and Ann stands in the doorway for a moment, one foot out in the hall, hesitating, waiting to see if Anne will make the first move. “Thank you for breakfast. I'm sorry I couldn't stay longer.”

“Perhaps another time,” Anne suggests. “You know where to find me.”

When the chance of another kiss seems unlikely, Ann holds the strap of her bag tight against her chest and turns to walk in the direction of the lifts. She's only a few steps away when Anne rushes to her, gently takes her wrist and spins her until they're face to face again. Anne dips, bends her knees just a bit so they're at an even-level and leans in to kiss her – just once but with purpose. Breathless, Ann's left desperate for more in the middle of the fifth floor hallway.

“A taste of chapter three,” Anne whispers across her lips. “Text me when you've finished it.”

**-x-x-x-**

“Hot damn,” Catherine greets as Ann arrives at _Lightcliffe_. “Where did you get_ that_ suit and why have I never seen you wear it before?”

Damn it. She'd planned to swap it for her cardigan on her walk over, but Anne's kiss had left her a little dazed and confused. “It's, uh, new.”

“I _like_ it,” Catherine compliments, her voice sing-songy. “I approve of this look.”

“Hang it for me?” Ann requests, shrugging it off and holding it out in Catherine's direction where the coat rack sits behind the counter. In the brief moment of exchange, when Catherine's hand crosses hers, Ann sees the initials sewn on the inside tag of the jacket – _**A.L.**_ – and hopes with every fiber of her being that Catherine is too oblivious to notice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Make the author smile and leave a comment below with your thoughts :) Thank you again to everyone who has read, commented, kudo-ed, subscribed, or bookmarked. I am overwhelmed and humbled by the kindness of this fandom!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friends - thank you for being patient with me! Had a bit of a rough week, but hopefully the length of this chapter - and what it entails - will make up for the few extra days of waiting :)
> 
> Edit: it seems like AO3 did something funky when I first posted this and had chunks of text appear more than once! I've since edited and believe I've fixed it, but if text appears to repeat after a refresh of the page, please let me know in a comment below!

If Catherine suspects anything, she keeps mum about it. But that certainly doesn't stop Ann from worrying for the rest of the work day. She barely accomplishes anything on her to-do list, more concerned with watching Catherine and picking up on any slight change in her behavior toward her. When her shift ends at 4, Catherine leaves without a word, and although not all that unusual, it does nothing to put Ann's fears to rest.

The unease follows her home. She considers texting Catherine, making polite enough conversation to see how she responds to it. Messaging Anne also crosses her mind, but it's hardly her responsibility to listen to her unspool. Desperate for a distraction, she ultimately decides to curl up on the sofa with a weighted blanket, a bowl of salt and vinegar crisps (a guilty pleasure), and a glass of Moscato to enjoy while she works her way through the B-horror movies on her Netflix queue.

But that still isn't enough.

Ann's uncomfortably restless, the anxiety and nervous energy from the day finally reaching a peak. She needs an outlet for it all, and vegging out simply isn't it.

So she cleans. Organizes. Goes through some of the storage bins that have been shoved under her bed since moving back to London years ago. It's a blast from the past going through it all – pictures from family holidays, embarrassing diaries from middle school, paper playbills from her award-winning performance as Tree #3 in Year 7. Her mother's golden cross necklace – shoved at the very bottom of the box, likely in a fit of grief after her passing - brings tears to Ann's eyes. A dried corsage from her first father-daughter dance in Year 3 makes her even more weepy.

She's about to call it a night when she notices one last box. It's hopelessly dusty, but worth the tickle in her throat when she realizes what's inside. The plastic container is filled to the brim with drawings – scribbled nonsense in crayon all the way up to detailed sketches from her brief time at university. Although its been years, her sketchpad and pencils are in surprisingly good shape. Unexpectedly, Ann may have just found the distraction she's been searching for.

It comes back to her effortlessly. She sketches freely for awhile, a collection of curves and lazy lines that help her find her rhythm again. Her mind wanders to the morning, to the decadence of _The Shibden_ and Anne's suite, and suddenly the pencil strokes evolve into something more – of beautiful burgundy drapes and gold accents and extravagance that's just out of her grasp.

And Anne – an entirely different work of art.

**-x-x-x-**

Ann's with a customer when the front door bell of _Lightcliffe Books_ chimes a quarter to noon. She thinks nothing of it at first, keeping her focus on the cute, twenty-something university student in search of a copy of _Skin and Other Stories_ for her Literature course.

“Can I help you with something?” Ann can hear Catherine's greeting from her spot mid-aisle, along with the tap of the patron's boots as they walk to the front counter.

“I'm here for Miss Walker, actually.”

And suddenly the young woman's search for the dark side of Roald Dahl is the last of Ann's priorities. She rushes over to the front as quickly as she can, interrupting Catherine before she has a chance to start interrogating. “There's a woman over in short stories that needs some assistance. Would you mind?”

“I thought you...” But the clench of Ann's jaw and the frenzied look in her eye tells Catherine to let it go for now. “Right. Ok.” Catherine smiles politely at Anne. “Seems you've found what you were looking for already Miss-”

“Lister,” Anne finishes, extending her arm toward Catherine for a shake. “Anne Lister.”

Ann glares at Catherine, hoping she can use some mind meld technique to tell her to _be nice_, but Anne's charms seem to work on even the straightest of women, because Catherine just stands there, seemingly in a trance, staring shamelessly. It hardly lasts more than a second or two, but it's agonizing for Ann to watch, and she actually sighs quietly in relief when Catherine _finally_ takes Anne's hand. “Catherine Rawson.”

The expression on Anne's face is difficult to read. It's almost as if she's sizing Catherine up, and the tension there puts Ann's stomach in knots. But then Anne turns to her, and any tension on her face instantly softens when they lock eyes. “Ready to go?”

Ann breathes a sigh of relief. “Yes.”

Anne escorts her to the door, a brief moment of contact as a hand meets her waist to gently guide her there, and although she's certain Catherine's noticed by now, Ann leaves her fears behind at _Lightcliffe_, determined to thoroughly enjoy the lunch date about to unfold.

**-x-x-x-**

Rather than sit down somewhere, Anne surprises her with an adventure through the nearby street markets, which bustle with visitors enjoying their weekends. Worldly, Anne offers her insight and recommendations as they pass from booth to booth, and Ann is completely enraptured, hanging on every word. After scouring the numerous options, she eventually chooses a scotch egg and chips, while Anne (at a certain someone's behest to get _something _despite her aversion to lunch) opts for a simple salad. They walk through the streets with food in hand until they come across a nearby park, quaint and quiet with only the occasional jogger or dog-walker passing through. Anne takes a seat on the edge of one empty bench and pats the open spot beside her.

“Sit. I'd say I don't bite, but...” She smiles before crunching through a bit of carrot.

Oh, how Ann would eagerly offer her neck. “This place is beautiful,” she compliments, admiring the landscaping and array of wildflowers around them.

“I can only sit cooped up in a hotel room for so long. I've found this to be a wonderful escape when I need it.”

“Do you come here often?” Ann asks before taking a bite of one chip.

“On occasion.” Anne flicks a few pieces of lettuce around her bowl with her fork. “Never with anyone, though.”

Ann nearly chokes.

“When was the last time you went on holiday?”

It takes Ann a moment to think back that far. “I went home to Halifax a few years ago to visit some extended family, but that isn't much of a holiday, is it?”

Amused, Anne laughs lightly. “No, I don't suppose so.” She stabs at a leftover crouton with the prong of her fork until it crumbles into the lettuce beneath it, wet with a vinegar and oil dressing. “I've been asked to do a book reading in York next week. Some sort of literary conference that Mariana insists I can't say no to.”

Leaving again. It comes with the territory, but Ann hadn't expected her to go again so soon, just as they've grown so fond of each other. Suddenly, her appetite is gone. She sets her takeout container down beside her and tries not to look too horribly disappointed by Anne's news. “I'm sure you'll have a lovely time.”

“Oh Ann,” she chuckles, moving closer so she can stroke the rogue bit of curls surrounding Ann's face. “Darling, I want you to come _with _me.”

Without the cool autumn breeze on her face, Ann may just faint.

Travel.

Across the country.

_With Anne_.

“I know it's last minute,” Anne continues. “And you have every right to say no. But I would love for you to join me. There is _so_ much I want to show you.”

“How long?”

“Just a week. I know you have responsibilities, and I certainly don't want to be the reason for any hardship. But Miss Rawson seems adept enough not to burn the place down in your absence.” Anne winks.

_Of course_, Ann wants to blurt. It's a once in a lifetime opportunity that she couldn't imagine passing up. But there is something inside her that stops her from blurting her answer, something that makes her feel almost _guilty _for even considering it. Her trepidation is clear in the way Ann manages nothing more than a stutter in response, and Anne, ever observant, takes her hand to calm her.

“You don't have to decide right this minute.”

“I don't want you to think-”

“Take all the time you need,” she assures. “I'll be leaving on Tuesday. I do hope you'll join me, but the decision is entirely yours to make.”

Ann's phone chimes with a text notification. She pulls it out of her bag to check, shocked to find it's almost 2.

“Goodness,” Anne chuckles, noticing the hour, “have we really sat here this long?”

“I have to get back.” Ann rushes around frantically, tossing her garbage into a nearby public bin before gathering the rest of her belongings. “You – I – I don't mean to rush off, I just-”

“I could walk you back?”

“No – it's –“ Another ring as a series of texts come through from Catherine asking where she's disappeared to. “I'll call you?”

Anne smiles. “I'll be waiting.”

**-x-x-x-**

“Nice of you to join us,” Catherine remarks sarcastically when Ann finally bursts through the front door of _Lightcliffe Books_ at half past 2.

“I'm so sorry. We – _I _lost track of time.”

“Who is your new little friend?” Despite her feeble attempts, Catherine's awful at hiding her jealousy.

“Anne – Miss Lister is a customer. I helped her with some research for a book she's writing and she wanted to take me to lunch to thank me.” A terrible liar, Ann tosses her bag behind the counter and disappears down one aisle to bury her nose in a book, avoiding Catherine's unnerving stare.

“Do you make a habit of dining with every customer? First Al and now this..._Miss Lister_.”

“Any plans for next week?”

“You're avoiding,” Catherine scolds.

“I am_ not_. I'm being nice enough to possibly offer you more hours and yet you seem to enjoy biting the hand that feeds you.”

Suspicious, Catherine furrows her brow and crosses her arms over her chest. “You're keeping something from me.” When it's clear Ann's not going to give in that easily, she asks, “What's going on next week?”

Frustrated, Ann sighs. “Will you just answer the question?”

“Yeah, sure, whatever. I'll take more hours. But _why_?”

“Wasn't your shift over at 2?”

“Yes, but _someone _wasn't back here in time so I-”

“I'll let you know if the schedule changes at all.” A sudden weekend crowd sweeps through the shop, and in an attempt to avoid any more of Catherine's questions, Ann rushes over to welcome them, watching slyly out of the corner of her eye as her best friend clocks out and stomps off out of the shop in a huff.

**-x-x-x-**

Lounging in a pair of red and white polka dot pyjamas, Ann's Saturday night is truly wild, complete with pizza and the fanciest boxed wine she can find. With rerun episodes of her favorite soap in the background, Ann focuses on the sketchpad in her lap, beginning to shade in the details of _The Shibden_ as she can recall them. More firsthand accounts of the room would certainly help make it more accurate, but she doesn't want to impose.

After awhile, stuck on whether the rug beneath Anne's window sill was navy to accent or burgundy to match the drapes, Ann decides to read for awhile instead. She grabs _Evening Hour_ from its place in her handbag and picks up where she'd last left off on the train in the middle of Chapter 3.

Her expectations had been high, but the scene is so much better than she could have imagined. There is a caress of a cheek, and a brush of fingertips across the piano keys as Eliza and Sarah play together, and then, when Ann is certain she's about to burst from the tension: a kiss - beautiful, erotic, described in detail in ways only Anne can master.

At a quarter after 9, more than a little riled up from her reading and with someone clearly on her mind now, Ann grabs her mobile and sends off a quick text.

_Busy night?_

A response comes through faster than she's expected.

**A.L.:** _Stuck at an insipid gathering in Berkshire. Although they'd hardly notice if I left, I'm sure._

Ann finds it hard to believe Anne would ever be anything less than the life of the party.

_You're nearby. My flat is in Reading._

She replies without realizing how close to an invitation it sounds. Having Anne over would be a dream, but her current state of dress is hardly the impression she wants to give. While her flat is nice enough, it's hardly _The Shibden_, and she doesn't want any of it to fall overwhelmingly short of Anne's expectations.

**A.L: ** _Is that so? I could give an excuse. In fact, I think I already feel a tickle in my throat._

Ann laughs softly to herself. With each text, her apprehension fades little by little.

_It would only be polite to excuse yourself in that state. I have just the tea that might help._

**A.L: ** _Send me your address?_

**-x-x-x-**

As soon as the details have been sent, Ann rushes around as though she's lost her head, tidying up as best she can in the little time it will take for Anne to arrive. She swaps her pyjamas for a pair of black leggings and a long grey sweater – appropriate enough to give the illusion of her relaxed evening without looking like a complete mess. Her curls – wild and frizzy from the pillow she's been laying on – are beyond saving, so she opts for a high bun with a spritz of control spray for the fly-aways. As she's flicking a bit of mascara across her lashes, there's a buzz at the front door, followed by the static of the apartment intercom.

Ann doesn't even have to ask who it is.

The minute or so it takes for Anne to travel up the few flights of stairs seems to drag for an eternity. Bubbling with nervous energy, Ann bounces from foot to foot on the other side of the door. Then – two knocks.

No turning back.

Taking a deep breath, Ann unfastens the chain lock and opens the door to find Anne standing there in all her glory, dressed in a stunning textured black blazer. There's a ribbed, ivory-colored turtleneck underneath that's tucked into a pair of matching black slacks – tight-cut, fitted enough to accentuate the length of Anne's legs. She finishes it all with simple diamond studs in her ears and a matching diamond band on her index finger. Ann's not quite sure what the occasion of the Berkshire gathering was, but she's certain if Anne's always dressed this way, she's now desperate to attend if at all possible.

“Hello.”

Anne's greeting pulls her back to reality. “Hi there,” she replies in a puff of breath.

“Can I come in?”

“O-oh. Yes. Yes, of course. I'm so sorry. I-”

“There's no need to apologize,” Anne assures as she steps inside. With a shrug of her shoulders, the black blazer slides over her arms to reveal the sleeveless style of the lining turtleneck, and if Anne's ensemble hadn't rattled her, the sight of her bare arms certainly do.

“Would you like me to-” Ann offers her hand.

“No,” Anne assures, opting to drape the jacket over her arm instead of hanging it.

“Can I offer you some tea?” Ann smiles. “You know, for that tickle in your throat.”

Anne laughs. “Ah, yes, of course.” She fakes a quick cough. “I'm in _agony_, honestly.”

With that, Ann rushes over to the attached kitchen, filling the kettle with hot water while watching as Anne studies the various details of her flat – from the grey-blue sofa to the bouquet of pink roses at the entryway end table. The corner bookshelf is filled with a variety of paperbacks – from copies of the classics to a few smutty novels that will absolutely mortify her if Anne makes mention of them. But Anne says nothing as she passes by, simply running her fingertips along them in one long stroke before moving to the other side the room. “How long have you lived here?” Anne asks as she continues to journey through the living area, stopping every so often to admire the various baskets and trinkets that decorate it.

“Five years. I've thought about moving a bit closer to London to cut down on the commute, but I've just really fallen in love with the place. Managed to make it a bit of a home after all this time.”

“And this?” Anne's shifted her attention to a storage basket hidden at the corner where the sofa and bookshelf meet. Inside it, Ann's shoved the art supplies she's been fiddling with for the past few days, and it doesn't take much rummaging for Anne to see them. “I didn't know you were an artist.”

“Oh I'm-I'm really not. It's just a thing I used to do. Honestly, you-” But in the midst of Ann's trying to divert, the kettle begins to whine loudly from its spot on the stove, and the distraction robs her of the opportunity to stop Anne from finding her sketchbook.

“Is this my suite?”

Humiliated. Mortified. There are not enough words in the English language – or any other for that matter – to properly explain how Ann feels. She wants nothing more than to slink into the tiling of the kitchen floor and disappear, never to face Anne's scrutiny as she dissects the awful drawing in her hands. Instead, she hides her face in the kitchen cabinet to try to compose herself, hide the shame on her face - the bright red heat of embarrassment rising up her cheeks - under the guise of searching for the tea she'd promised a moment ago. “It is,” Ann finally answers with her back turned. “It was just on my mind and I thought – I hope I didn't offend you. It just-”

“Offend me? Ann, this is stunning.”

That was certainly not the response she'd expected. “I stopped because I couldn't quite remember...well, you'll think it's silly.”

“I will not. Go on.”

Pouring the hot water into two cups, Ann grabs two teabags and sets them inside, leaving the string of each to hang over the edge. Carefully, she walks across the room to join Anne where she's standing in the corner, still admiring. “I couldn't remember if the rug near the window sill was navy or burgundy,” she explains with a breath of a laugh.

Anne delicately sets the sketchbook back where she's found it before taking the tea from Ann's hands. Wrapping it around her finger, Anne slowly dips the teabag up and down to further steep it, and something about the rhythm of it makes the breath catch in Ann's throat. “I suppose you'll have to visit again to find out.”

“Tell me about tonight?” Ann asks, trying to divert the conversation.

Anne tosses her jacket across the back of the sofa and takes a seat on the edge, draping one arm across the rest there. “There's not much to tell honestly. Some discussion about trends and bestseller lists and other nonsense I've already blocked out. What about you? What exactly have you been up to this evening, Miss Walker?” She leans forward to set her cup down on the coffee table, quickly taking notice of the tattered paperback in the middle of it. “A little light reading?”

“I just finished Chapter Three.” Ann settles beside her, setting her cup next to Anne's. “It was...even better than I'd imagined”

“Was it?” Anne smiles mischievously. “I remember the kiss but it's been years. Perhaps you could remind me?” She picks up the book and skims through the pages until she finds the excerpt she's searching for. Eyebrows raised in expectation, she hands it over and waits for Ann to begin.

“You want me to-”

“Read,” Anne finishes. “If you'd be so kind.”

Public speaking of any kind – even with an audience of one – has never been Ann's thing. The mere concept scares her shitless, but with Anne beside her – with all of her attention focused on her and her alone – she's completely rattled. But disappointing Anne would be even worse than a bout of stage fright, and so with a deep breath and a quick cough to clear her throat, Ann finds her place with her finger and begins to read.

“_As promised, Eliza beckons for Sarah at the piano. 'Sit,' she instructs, patting the spot beside her. Sarah – now silent – joins her from her place at the bar, letting her fingertips dance along the keys to familiarize herself with them. Eliza slides ever closer, near enough to place her hands on top of Sarah's to guide and press with gentle pressure. 'Just follow my lead.'_”

As Ann reads, she can feel the heat of Anne's stare, eyeing her with a mix of genuine adoration and something more – something primal, like a cat stalking her prey.

“_They start simple with C chord, Eliza guiding Sarah's fingers along the appropriate keys before shifting them up to press along various sharps and flats. It's a simple melody, but the intimacy of their position makes it seem like something more, and Eliza would be happy to sit for hours teaching her. Sarah is certainly a receptive student, leaning into Eliza's touch without a bit of hesitation.”_

Anne's hand finds hers where it's settled on the edge of the book, stroking slowly in a subtle homage to the chapter. It momentarily distracts her, suddenly only able to focus on the sensation at the back of her palm.

“Go on.”

“Right, sorry.” She quickly slides her tongue along her lips to wet them. _“Once Sarah's got the hang of it, Eliza picks up the pace, guiding across the length of the keyboard to play a bit of slow jazz. Sarah seems absolutely mesmerized by the tune, and the fact that she's – by proxy – playing, and the spark of joy in her eyes and face is worth the late night rendezvous. 'You're wonderful,' Eliza whispers into the shell of Sarah's ear. With the tickle of hot breath, she can see the line of goosebumps along the length of Sarah's neck, and perhaps it's the alcohol talking – the three bourbons on the rocks she's finished earlier in the night during their performance hitting her hard – but Eliza suddenly wants nothing more than to-”_ Ann's voice cracks as Anne leans in closer, the warmth of her breath teasing along the pulse at her neck. The back of Anne's fingers slide delicately across her shoulder, then up to brush a few fallen strands of hair away until the top of her shoulder is exposed at the wide, scooped neckline of her sweater.

“I thought I remembered a kiss,” Anne purrs. “Was I mistaken?”

“N-no. I just haven't...gotten there...yet.” Mouth suddenly dry, Ann grabs one of the teacups from the coffee table, disappointed by the bitter taste from having steeped for far too long. “Tea's gone bad. I can get-”

“Leave it.” Anne dips her head down to brush her lips along the curve of Ann's shoulder. She peppers a series of them up until she finds Ann's pulse again, and although her kisses are featherlight, they are merciless, leaving Ann trembling beneath them. “Should I stop?”

“No.”

“Are you going to continue?” Even hushed, Anne's voice is teasing.

“I don't think I can,” she answers honestly, eyes fluttering shut at the feel of Anne's lips as they find a particularly sensitive spot just behind her ear.

“Perhaps I can persuade you in York? Have you given it any more thought?”

Thought. Something Ann's completely lacking at the moment. She shivers. “I have.”

“And?”

“I...”

From her pocket, Anne's phone rings – finishes a full round before it starts again. “I'm sorry,” she apologizes before stepping away to answer it. “Hello? Yes, I took a taxi. I'm sure you managed just fine without me.” Anne's whole body tenses. “Will you calm down? You don't-you're being ridiculous_, honestly._” An eyeroll. “I'm not having this conversation right now.” Quickly running her fingers through her hair in frustration, Anne angrily taps the 'end call' button and shoves her phone back in her pocket with a sigh. “I'm so sorry, but I have to go talk my agent off a ledge.” She stomps back over to the couch to grab her blazer. “Come to me tomorrow morning? You can find a bit of inspiration in my suite and perhaps we can discuss York if you aren't completely fed up with me?”

Despite being more than a little heartbroken, Ann reassures her with a crooked smile. “I'll give you a ring in the morning.”

Before she leaves, Anne places a delicate, parting kiss on Ann's cheek, and long after Anne's gone, curled up alone in bed with the lights off, Ann can still feel the warmth of it there against her skin, beckoning her back to _The Shibden _with each passing hour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Make the author's night (and week!) and leave a comment below with your thoughts :)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slightly shorter chapter, but a lot to unpack. Enjoy :)

Over a cup of coffee and a soft-boiled egg with toast, Ann spends the early hours of Sunday morning rearranging her staff's schedule for the week. She takes Catherine's semi-committal as word that she will cover as much as she can, but there are still gaps to fill. If she shifts Sophie from Friday to Thursday, she can call upon Thomas – a local university student who helps with stock on occasion for some extra pub money – to work part of the weekend shift. By 8, she's satisfied with the solution she's managed to come up with. If all else fails, she will close on account of a holiday, and no one will be any the wiser. But she's confident that the store will run just fine without her, and so Ann makes her decision.

She will go to York.

A call to Anne around 9 goes unanswered. But with an open invitation, Ann decides to make her way over to _The Shibden_ anyway. With an entire day off at her disposal, she grabs her sketchbook and copy of _Evening Hour _along with her handbag before making her way out the door, covering all her bases depending on where their conversation may lead.

A block away from the station, she gives Anne another ring. Like before, it eventually goes to voicemail, so she leaves a simple message with the details of her arrival: getting on the train soon, should be there by 10, text if there's anything she needs. Anne's silence is slightly concerning, but Ann uses the travel time to reassure herself that she's probably sleeping in, or showering, or somewhere without service, or really any excuse that isn't that she's blatantly ignoring her.

Once off the train, she uses the short walk over to practice her speech: just exactly how she plans to tell Anne _yes_, she will travel with her. She imagines the look of relief and excitement on Anne's face – a spark of a smile that starts in her eyes, then to the fine lines at the corner of her mouth as it curls at the corners, before the final reveal of dazzling white teeth. A puff of breath as she sighs excitedly. And finally, a delicate caress at the back of her neck before a knee-buckling kiss.

Ann's lost in a daydream by the time she arrives at the front doors of the hotel. Giddy, she breezes by the front desk staff and the guests enjoying breakfast to hop on a lift to the 5th floor. On the ride up, she begins a mental checklist of travel preparations; a typical holiday would inevitably find her shoving a mishmash of dresses and t-shirts and sports bras into her suitcase at the last minute, but every outfit must be expertly planned this time, every option an opportunity to further impress Anne. There's little time to perfect it before Wednesday, and an entire Sunday at _The Shibden_ doesn't exactly help her cause, but Ann somehow ignores her travel anxiety as she approaches Room 523.

She knocks twice, then a third time when there isn't an answer a few seconds later. There's a shuffle on the other side of the door before it opens – barely, just a few inches to peek through. And while Ann recognizes the face staring back at her, she's surprised to find that it isn't Anne, but someone she remembers from the book signing over a week ago.

“The room doesn't need serviced today, but thank you for-”

Ann holds her arm out to stop the door from closing in her face. “Oh, I'm not – I'm here to see Anne Lister.”

The woman's expression is tense – not cold exactly, but _suspicious_, and she eyes Ann slowly from head to toe with a penetrating stare, eventually lingering on the copy of _Evening Hour_ tucked against Ann's arm. “Miss Lister doesn't make a habit of meeting fans in her hotel room, but if you leave your information at the front desk, I'm sure she'd be happy to sign and have it returned to you at her earliest convenience.”

Before Ann has a chance to defend herself, the door promptly shuts in her face. It takes her a moment to even comprehend what's just happened, and while she loathes confrontation, there's a part of her that's _screaming_ for her to burst her way through Anne's hotel room door, regardless of what this random, slightly rude woman has said to her. But the docile, more timid side of her wins once again. Shoulders slumped and on the verge of tears, Ann slinks back over to the set of lifts to make her exit.

She should call Anne. Surely this woman's dismissal is a misunderstanding. But two previously ignored calls don't exactly leave Ann with much hope.

The right lift opens with a chime, and she politely steps out of the way for the group of people exiting it. Anxious, she focuses on the pink laces of her sneakers, her attention only shifting at the sound of her name called beside her.

“Ann!”

She looks to her right, surprised to find Anne standing there with a takeout cup of coffee and a pastry bag of some sort. Her long hair is pulled back into a loose ponytail, and although it's early on a Sunday morning, she's still dressed to perfection in a loose, long-sleeved v-neck button up and a pair of matching slacks. The only casual things about her are the pair of grey flats on her feet and the lack of a trademark ring at her index finger.

“I was just fetching myself something for breakfast. Are you going to come inside?”

“I don't want to impose,” Ann answers. Her voice shakes despite her best efforts to hide it.

Clearly confused, Anne wrinkles her forehead. “Impose? You never impose.”

“It seems like you might have company right now, so I'll just come back another time.” Anxious to avoid whatever argument is about to unfold, Ann vigorously taps the “down” button of the lift, the door having already closed during their quick exchange.

“Company? I don't-” Anne looks over her shoulder in the direction of her hotel room, and it only takes a split second for her expression to shift from perplexed to irritated, jaw suddenly tight and a hint of fire in her eyes. Her fist clenches tightly around the plastic in her hand. “Did Mariana say something to you?”

Ann shrugs sheepishly. “I'm just gonna go. We'll, uh-” The lift takes an agonizing amount of time to return to the fifth floor. “We'll catch up later, ok?” Desperate for an escape, she bolts across the hall to opt for the stairs, jogging down all five flights of them until she's back in the lobby. Without looking back, she bursts through the front doors of _The Shibden_, proud that she's managed not to really cry until she's outside, standing alone on the pavement with her book and sketches pressed tightly against her chest.

It's certainly not how she'd planned for the morning to go.

When she's eventually collected herself – shifted from the random crazy woman crying on the street to one that's just sniffling now – Ann starts her trek back to the train station. But she quickly realizes what a waste of a beautiful Sunday it would be to sit at home alone. Suddenly inspired to be anywhere but Berkshire, she turns in the opposite direction, toward the Sunday markets and the pop-up vendors and her very own _Lightcliffe Books_.

There's an unusual crowd outside of the shop as Ann approaches it. Saturday and Sunday are often their busiest days, but even for a weekend, the swarm of people hovering nearby is a bit unusual. A quick peek around the corner reveals why – a series of artists have setup shop to show off and sell their work, and if that isn't enough to entice the masses, there's a chalk artist freestyling on the pavement that has children and their parents alike oo-ing and aah-ing. The line at _Lightcliffe_ is nearly out the door as a result, and though it's her day off, she's sure Catherine is drowning and could use the help. Plus, it's a more than welcome distraction.

“Oh thank Christ,” Catherine sighs when Ann walks through the door. “I was trying not to bother you but it's been chaos today.” She stops. “Wait, why the hell are you here?”

Ann shrugs, then tosses her belongings behind the counter. “Doesn't matter. I'll take the floor if you've got the counter?”

“You're a saint, Walker.”

The visitors are pleasant enough. They ask a deluge of questions and genuinely seem interested in the shop and what it has to offer, and Ann guesses that at least three-quarters of them buy at least one book before leaving. And yet, it still isn't the diversion she was hoping for. Each couple that walks in – hand-in-hand, giggling, stealing kisses in the middle of the fictional romance aisle – makes her heart ache a little more. It's impossible not to think about Anne and their awkward exchange earlier in the morning. Without a call or even a simple text, the silence is certainly deafening. A day that had started with such promise quickly turns out to be utterly disappointing.

By lunch, the store is jam-packed with people. Ann tries her best to manage them all, but even _she's_ a little overwhelmed, and poor Catherine looks positively frazzled at the register. Ann's just sent a mother and her teenage son off to the non-fiction section for a biography about Alexander Hamilton when there's a tap on her shoulder – light, just enough to get her attention. At first, she assumes it's just another impatient customer. But as she turns around to ask how she can help, it's someone far more important standing across from her in all black, grey flats swapped for boots in addition to the dark peacoat that's now at her shoulders.

“How did you know I'd be here?”

Anne smiles weakly. “Just a guess. Don't think for a minute I wouldn't have traveled to Reading if I had to. Can we talk?”

The floor is far too crowded and noisy to have any sort of meaningful conversation. Ann takes Anne's hand and leads her across the aisle to the back of the shop where the break room is, and although she's irritated and embarrassed by what's already transpired, the sensation of Anne's fingers locked with hers, skin to skin, still quickens her pulse. Once inside, she closes the door and stands firm on the other side of the room, keeping as much distance between them as she can bear.

“Talk to me?” Anne begs, taking one step forward.

“The woman in your hotel room. That was your agent?”

Ann nods. “Mariana. What on Earth did she say to you?”

Ann chews nervously at the inside of her cheek. “It's not _what _she said, although I suppose it wasn't very kind. It was _how_ she said it. She...” Making eye contact when Anne's looking at her like _that _now_,_ so_ intensely_, makes the hair stand at the back of her neck. Uncomfortable, Ann looks away, focuses on her fingernails and her shoes and the room's awful wallpaper – anywhere but the dark, pleading eyes across from her. “Am I just another fan to you? It's ok if that's all it is. Just please tell me now, because-”

“Ann-” Anne moves closer, and the sudden lack of space between them makes the room seem just a bit warmer.

“And it's not that I would blame you,” Ann continues, waving her hands animatedly. “I wouldn't. But I don't think my heart could take it a month from now if you were suddenly finished with me. Or if I were to travel with you only to come back and-”

“_Ann_.” It's more firm this time, but Anne's touch is the definition of gentle as one hand slides up the back of her neck while the other cups her cheek to stroke along the slight dimple there. “Surely by now you must know how I feel for you? I would never have asked you to travel with me if you were just some fan.”

“I tried calling this morning and...well, you aren't obligated, of course, but why didn't you call me back if you were busy or didn't want my company?”

Anne shakes her head in disbelief. “I called you back around 9:30. You didn't answer so I just assumed that you were busy or already on your way.”

Confused, Ann cocks her head. “I didn't receive anything...” Without hesitation, Anne pulls her mobile from her back pocket and hands it over with the call log pulled up. Sure enough, there's two outgoing calls labeled _Ann Walke_r around 9:30, and while none of it makes sense, Ann can't argue with the cold, hard evidence in front of her. She compares the timestamp of her own first calls and Anne's follow-ups, and it's then that she finally realizes what the culprit of their miscommunication might have been. “ was underground when you called back. The service is awful. And if you didn't leave a message...” She sighs, embarrassed. “Oh Anne, I'm so-”

“Don't you dare apologize,” she interrupts, cradling Ann's face again. “You're here. I'm here. That's all that matters now.”

“I want to go with you. To York. If you'll still have me?”

She'd imagined Anne's face in this moment, but nothing compares to the real thing. She's glowing, beaming, buzzing with excitement as her fingertips press a little more firmly into Ann's skin until she simply can't hold it in anymore, closing the little gap between them to initiate a breathtaking kiss. Anne's fingernails scrape deliciously at the back of Ann's scalp to tangle more tightly in her hair, pulling her closer into her mouth as she kisses and nips, and when a little moan bubbles up Ann's throat, Anne only urges her on more with a swipe of her tongue and press of her thumb along the sensitive pulse point at her neck.

Using her height and strength to her advantage, Ann can feel Anne's weight against her hip and thigh, pushing her until the backs of her knees meet the table at the middle of the room. She's dined there many times on her breaks, but Anne's an entirely different kind of snack, and when she ducks her head to suck at a particularly sensitive spot at the center of her throat, it takes every ounce of self control she has not to beg Anne to lift her up and-

"In York," Anne purrs, opting now to place a series of hot, open-mouthed kisses along Ann's jawline. "Oh darling, the _sights_ I will show you."

It's all perfect. Exhilarating. _Terrifying._

And yet, when the door of the break room suddenly swings open without warning, Ann's trembling for an entirely different reason.

“Miss Lister was looking for you, and I wanted to make sure-” Catherine stops short once she's stepped inside and falls witness to the scene unfolding in front of her. Ann isn't quite sure what exactly Catherine's seen, having pulled away as quickly as she feasibly could, but the expression on her best friend's face isn't exactly comforting. “Well, it certainly seems like she's found you.”

The tension mounts lightning fast. Ann's heart beats out of her chest as Catherine stares at her, almost challenging her to say_ somethin_g. A cold sweat starts at the back of her neck, and she can't help but turn to Anne for some guidance or assurance or _something_ to stop her from vomiting all over the back of the shop.

“It's so nice to see you again, Miss Rawson.” Anne offers her hand, which promptly goes ignored.

“_Yeah_,” Catherine responds, dragging out each vowel. “Miss Lister, do you think Ann and I could have a moment alone?”

“Of course.” She gives Ann's pinky a quick squeeze before making her way to the door. “I'll ring later to check in, ok?”

Ann can barely muster a nod.

Catherine raises her eyebrows and leans against the back of the door. “You want to talk about it?”

Ann shrugs, feigning innocence. “Nope.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“So I didn't just see-”

“I've got a lot to do before I leave, so if you'll excuse me-”

Catherine positions herself strategically in front of the handle. “Where are you going, exactly?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

“York. I'll be back in a week, week and a half tops.”

“I take it you're not going _alone_?” Catherine smirks.

“I really don't have time for-”

“The trademark Ann Walker Run.”

“I'm sorry?” Ann scoffs, mildly offended.

“When you're afraid, you run. You never actually face your problems. You ran away from here and from your family before and now you're-”

“You know Catherine,” she snips, the shake of her voice inevitable, “sometimes you can just be truly _awful_.” With a less-than-gentle nudge to push Catherine out of the way, Ann storms out from the back to grab her bag, sketchpad, book, and coat from behind the counter before making her way to the front as best she can without causing a scene. Catherine's still trailing behind her all the while, silent but throwing daggers with her icy stare.

Biting back tears, Ann stomps out into the street and down the block, making record time toward the station without stopping for even a second to look back. While boarding the train, she grabs her phone and sends out a quick text before she loses a signal again.

_Packing now. How soon could we leave?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mariana!
> 
> Catherine!!!
> 
> Ahhhhhh!!!!!!!
> 
> Make the author's night and leave a comment below with your thoughts :) What do you think is in store for our ladies when they arrive in York!?


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like the Ann(e)s, the wife and I are off on our own short holiday, and I wanted to leave you all with a little something :) I will likely still write a little while we're away, but it may take a few more days than usual for the next update. Until then, I hope you enjoy ;)

Despite Ann's gentle prying via text message, Anne is tight-lipped about any plans or engagements in York, which only makes it more difficult to decide what to bring along on their trip. It's only a week, but appearances will inevitably be everything, and while Anne never looks anything less than perfect, Ann's everyday yoga pants and cardigans likely won't cut it. To be safe, she packs a little bit of everything – a few button-ups and pairs of leggings for anything casual, a couple of dark-wash jeans with complimenting blouses, her favorite yellow sundress, a little black dress for something more formal, and depending on where the wind takes them, she even includes the low-cut maroon cocktail number that Catherine had left as an option for her first dinner date with Anne.

Catherine. She's sent several texts since their altercation earlier in the day – some asking to talk, others extending a sort of disingenuous apology – but Ann's chosen to ignore the lot of them for the time being, disinterested in anything but her upcoming holiday. She'll deal with the drama next week. For now, her thoughts fall on Anne alone, who, in a matter of hours, has shifted their travel plans up from Wednesday morning to early Monday afternoon, explaining as such through a series of her own text messages.

A hero in every sense of the word. They've not even left yet and Anne's already managed to lift her spirits.

And yet, with Anne's confirmation, the reality of the situation also sinks in. In less than 24 hours, they'll be traveling north together, and Ann can only begin to imagine what's in store for them. The type of extravagance Anne's inevitably used to is completely foreign to her, and that paired with the likelihood of them _finally _being alone together for more than an hour at a time leaves her feeling a bit anxious and rattled. She certainly doesn't want to _assume_ anything will happen, but she still wants to come prepared. From the back of her top dresser drawer, Ann pulls out a pink negligee, slightly crumpled from the time it's spent shoved in the back, unworn. Who knows if she'll use it, or if it's even really Anne's sort of thing, but it certainly doesn't hurt to bring it along..._just in case_.

The rest of the day drags. She's far too excited to eat and too anxious to sketch. Reading proves just as difficult. She only finishes a few more pages of _Evening Hour_ before her mind wanders elsewhere to York and whatever Anne has in store for them. Some last minute housework keeps her preoccupied for a short while – cleaning out her fridge of any leftovers, taking out the trash – but by 8, Ann realizes Sunday night is going to be a very, _very _long one.

**-x-x-x-**

As expected, she doesn't sleep a wink. When 5AM finally comes around, Ann's already exhausted, but it's overshadowed by just how eager she is to get the hell out of Berkshire. A steaming hot shower and a cup of very strong coffee are just enough to set her in motion, and after quickly brushing her teeth and pulling her hair back into a loose braid, she tosses the last of her toiletries into her bag and makes her way outside to wait for the cab she's scheduled to take her into the city.

It's half past 7 when she finally arrives in London. Her driver drops her off not at _The Shibden_, but at _Lightcliffe Books_ to leave the revised schedule for the week. Catherine will be in within the hour, and still not quite up for an actual conversation with her, Ann leaves a simple handwritten note beside it with instructions and an explanation of the staff calendar.

With everything settled, there's nothing else to do but head over to _The Shibden_. It's far earlier than she needs to be there, but she'll go mad otherwise waiting all morning in her flat. Easier to ask for forgiveness than get permission, or so the saying goes, although she certainly hasn't forgotten Anne's open invitation. Rather than knock and wake up an entire floor, Ann sends a quick text and bounces impatiently from foot to foot, waiting for Anne's smiling face to greet her.

The door swings open only a few seconds later. “How did I know you'd be early?” Anne welcomes with a chuckle. Always thoughtful, she takes the bag and suitcase from Ann's hands and gently leads her inside.

“I hope I didn't wake you.” But by the look of her, Ann guesses that's far from the case, Anne already finely dressed in an ivory front wrap long-sleeved blouse and simple black slacks.

“I've been awake for hours,” Anne assures. “Couldn't sleep.”

The admission makes Ann feels a little less embarrassed by her entire night of tossing and turning.

“I'm afraid Thomas won't be here to drive us until noon. Are you hungry? We can go downstairs for breakfast or I can order up?”

“Something small, perhaps? Just a coffee and toast. Or some fruit.” Ann reaches for her handbag to offer some money, only to have it promptly turned down as Anne ignores it on her walk to the front door.

“I'll be right back up,” she promises with a smile.

Alone in Anne's suite, Ann takes the time to truly admire it in depth. She's seen the living area, of course, but there's so much more to take in. The hall to Anne's bedroom and attached bath is lined with some exquisite Victorian art – replica prints, of course, but still beautiful regardless. The frames are adorned with gold along the red wood, and the delicate carving only compliments the art it showcases. There's a similar style that carries through the rest of the suite – the mirror above the bathroom sink and the long shower curtain being only two of many examples. And Anne's bedroom – oh, her _bedroom_.

She tries not to pry. It's a personal space that Anne's yet to invite her into, and though part of her knows it's wrong to snoop, Ann still tiptoes inside to get a deeper look into Anne's world. The bed is pristinely made, with a red and gold comforter draped across it to match the similarly colored pillows at the head. As she walks across, Ann runs her fingertips along it, the plush feel only adding to the growing list of reasons she wants to climb into Anne Lister's bed. A black suitcase lays in the middle of it, open on one side where Anne's left it unzipped, likely to fit the last of her things before they make their way out. Without too much digging, Ann's able to see a few neatly folded button-ups and collection of white camisoles that she guesses Anne wears underneath. A black balconette bra with a hint of lace and a pair of matching boy shorts leave far less to the imagination.

Lost in a foolish fantasy, she almost doesn't hear the front door open as Anne returns. Ann practically barrels down the hall to duck into the bathroom as an excuse for where she's disappeared to. She flushes the toilet and runs the water at the sink while listening for Anne in the other room.

“I wasn't sure what you were partial to, so I just included a little of everything,” Anne explains when Ann joins her again at the sofa. She hands one cup of fruit salad over before indulging in her own, popping a dark purple grape into her mouth. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

Caught in the act. Ann almost chokes on the strawberry she's working on. “I'm sorry?”

“Your drawing.” Anne nods over to where the sketchbook sits beside them on the coffee table. “The rug?”

“Oh _right_.” She glances over to the windowsill where the rug sits, the one she couldn't quite remember the color of to accurately sketch a few days before. “Burgundy.” Grabbing her box of pencils, Ann tries to find the perfect one to match – or at least one that will come close enough to compare. She chooses two other complimenting shades for the shadows and highlights, and with Anne's encouragement, fills the shape in with careful strokes as they enjoy the fruit, croissants and coffee Anne's brought up for them. It's a strange feeling to draw with an audience, but there's something comforting about Anne's presence beside her, watching but never judging, just genuinely interested in the piece as it comes to life in Ann's lap.

They sit quietly together for awhile, Ann filling in the various colors of _The Shibden_ while she has them in front of her for reference while Anne watches over her shoulder, scooting over just a bit, so _slowly_, until she's finally close enough to gently brush her fingertips back and forth along the base of Ann's neck and shoulder. It's distracting, to say the least, but Ann wouldn't even fathom asking her to stop.

“Beautiful,” Anne compliments, her voice low, and for a moment, Ann isn't sure whether she's talking about _her_ or the drawing. “You're very talented.” She pauses for a sip of coffee before casually adding, “Maybe one day you could draw me.”

“We have a few hours to spare,” Ann suggests playfully.

Anne laughs. “I can't argue with that.” She grabs a yellow paperback from the coffee table and situates herself in the armchair across from the sofa. Cradling the open book with one hand, Anne lifts her head just so, the angle accenting the line of her jaw and the curve of her nose, before tossing her hair over her shoulder with a dazzling smile on her lips. “Do your worst, Miss Walker.”

It's easy to feel unnerved when Anne's looking at her like that, with such expectation, but Ann powers through it, trusting her artistic abilities. She starts with the outline of Anne's face – strong, thin, particularly expressive around the mouth and eyes. Ann's careful to include the smallest of details – from the subtle fine lines at the corners of her lips to the slightly fractured angle of the base of her nose. There's likely a story behind it that Ann would love to know, imagining some dramatic fist fight at a pub in her youth or a fall down the side of a hill during one of Anne's many travels.

But Anne, she soon learns, is rather awful at sitting in place for an extended period of time. For awhile, she simply reads, eyes cast down toward the book in her hands, lazily turning the page every now and then. They're barely an hour into it, though, before Anne begins to shift, head tilted, alternating between legs spread and crossed at her thigh, and although it should frustrate her, Ann can't help but laugh at the sight of her. “Will you stop fidgeting?”

“I never fidget,” Anne protests with a smirk. “How's it coming along?”

“A mess if you don't stop _squirming_.”

“Oh _honestly_.”

Anne runs her fingers through her hair, mussing it a bit out of place. A few loose curls frame her face and neck afterward, the natural chestnut highlights particularly noticeable throughout her dark hair in this light. She looks stunning, but the shift in placement ruins the reference Ann's started with. “Do you mind if I?” She points to where Anne's hair has fallen, and Anne replies simply with a little nod and a subtle raise of her eyebrows. Getting a reference to the style she's started, Ann glances down at the sketchbook in her lap before leaning over to brush a few waves away from Anne's face, carefully tucking them behind her ear. It's the first time she's really initiated any sort of touch herself, and when the back of her fingers slip along the side of Anne's neck to brush a bit of hair away there, Ann can feel the breath catch against the pulse point there. Instinctively, she looks down at Anne's lips, then up to her eyes, and then back down to her mouth again.

When the front door of the suite swings open without notice, Ann quickly backs away to the sofa like a puppy with its tail between its legs.

“Don't you know how to _knock_?” Anne snips, shooting the intruder one of her patented glares.

“I have a key,” Mariana retorts flatly, tossing the piece of plastic onto the counter of the kitchenette as she enters.

Anne rolls her eyes.

Maybe not quite as commanding as Anne, but Mariana is certainly a presence all her own as she enters the room. She wears a yellow and white striped blouse and a tight black pencil skirt, paired with dangling gold earrings and a matching band with a rather large diamond on her ring finger. Unlike Anne's rather minimalist approach to makeup, Mariana opts for a smoky eye and a dark red lip that compliments her rather pale complexion. “I don't think we've been properly introduced yet.” She moves to where Ann sits and extends her arm in a polite handshake. “Mariana Lawton.”

“Ann Walker.”

“I believe you had something you wanted to say to Ann, didn't you Mariana?” Anne gently reminds her with a smirk.

Mariana clicks her tongue. “Right. I wanted to apologize for my behavior-”

“_Rude_ behavior,” Anne corrects.

Mariana, in turn, looks as though she's about to strangle Anne on the spot. “I wanted to apologize for the other day. I didn't realize you knew Anne, otherwise I assure you, you would have been more than welcome here.” She smiles – forced, almost pained – and Ann wants nothing more than to free the three of them from this awfully awkward conversation.

“It's nothing, honestly,” Ann assures. “A misunderstanding. No apology needed.”

“Wonderful.” Mariana looks over at Anne, and though she says nothing of the sort, her expression says it all – _are you happy now?_ And then, only a moment later, Mariana's focus is back on Ann, that fake, sticky-sweet smile on her lips once again. “Anne's informed me that you're going to be traveling along with us to York?”

_Us_. Ann tries not to look too disappointed. “Yes, if that's quite alright?”

“Of _course_ it's alright,” Anne interjects. She moves from the armchair back to the sofa, draping her arm along the back of it where Ann sits in a makeshift embrace.

The gesture does not go unnoticed by Mariana. “I've booked our usual suite, along with an additional attached room for Miss Walker to stay in.”

Anne shakes her head. “Ann and I will be taking the suite.”

“I assumed-”

“Well, you _shouldn't,_” Anne interrupts sharply. She gives Ann's shoulder a reassuring squeeze, clearly sensing her discomfort around the whole conversation by the way she tenses beside her. “You and I will be arriving in York later today, and Mariana will join us on Wednesday when my work engagements begin. Isn't that what we discussed, Mariana?”

“Yes,” she answers, clearly aggravated.

“Right, so it's all settled then.” Anne smiles contentedly while Mariana scowls across from her, and although Anne's embrace is always welcome, Ann wants nothing more than to slink into the couch cushions and disappear altogether.

Mariana's next comment does little to convince her otherwise.

“Are you an artist, Miss Walker?” she asks, taking notice of the sketchbook still in Ann's lap. “I thought Anne had mentioned you work at a bookshop?”

“_Owns_.”

Mariana dismisses Anne with a wave of her hand.

“I studied art a long time ago at university,” Ann explains. “I actually just stumbled upon my things while tidying up the other day and thought I would give it a go again.”

“Far too pretty,” Mariana remarks.

“I'm sorry?”

“Your drawing. Far too pretty for this one's likeness. Although you did get her nose right.”

“You're _insufferable_,” Anne sighs. “Show her your sketch of the room.”

Ann flips the page and holds the sketchpad out for Mariana to view, who takes no more than a moment to look at it before commenting. “Must visit quite often to put such a detailed picture together.” Her line of sight darts up to Anne, whose silence on the matter says everything. Smirking, Mariana adds, “I'm sure you'll find York to be quite the inspiration too.”

The friendly banter goes on for a bit, and while it's playful enough, Ann simply can't help but wonder if there's something more behind it. Whenever Anne gently touches her hair or offers a compliment, there's a flicker of emotion on Mariana's part, easily read in the falter of her smile that is not quite jealousy, but still something. _Resentment, _maybe. _Bitterness_, perhaps?

As time passes, Thomas is late. _Horribly_ late. At one point, Anne even suggests driving there herself, which promptly gets a snort from where Mariana's situated herself across the room with some paperwork to pass the time. “The last time you drove us anywhere, I suffered whiplash.”

“And if I recall,” Anne huffs, “you were given ample opportunity to walk.”

By the time he finally arrives a little before 3, Anne's practically paced a hole in the floor. Mariana seems almost amused by how annoyed Anne is, which only sours Anne's mood more. But despite it all, Anne is nothing but kind to Ann, all smiles and soft touches and assurances as they finally get the call to make their way downstairs to the car. Anne manages both of their suitcases with ease, and Ann's so enamored by the chivalry of it all that she almost misses the snarky little wave Mariana gives them as they disappear down the hall together.

_Almost._

“Miss Lister, I'm so sorry,” Thomas apologizes. “There was an accident just outside of the city that-”

Anne ignores him, opening the door of the cab for Ann to slide inside. She hands over her laptop case and Ann's handbag for her to take, leaving the rest for Thomas to load into the boot at the back, then joins Ann on the opposite side of the seat.

For the first hour of their drive, Ann busies herself with her phone, scrolling through her social media feeds and playing a few of the mindless video games she's downloaded from the App Store. But she can only finish so many levels of Candy Crush before she's hopelessly bored, and while she tries not to bother Anne as she's typing away furiously on her laptop, Anne's keenly aware of her restlessness. “Who's fidgeting now?” she teases.

Ann shrugs innocently, and when Anne reaches over to press two fingers softly against her lips – the only kiss she can offer with Thomas near them – Ann can feel the sensation of it all the way into her fingers and toes.

In her childhood, long term travel had always made her feel claustrophobic and nauseous. But Ann's completely comfortable with Anne beside her, who lazily reaches out every so often to stroke her neck or arm or thigh before eventually going back to her keyboard. They fall into a familiar, contented silence together after awhile, Anne working – or at least attempting to - while Ann settles into the next chapter of _Evening Hour _after finding it in the depths of her bag.

It isn't long – barely five or six pages in – before she can sense Anne reading over her shoulder. She can barely digest any of it with Anne's eyes on her, more concerned whether Anne's judging how fast she's reading, or how carefully she turns each page, or how she marks her place with the nail of her thumb as she moves from paragraph to paragraph. After awhile, Ann's dizzy from their closeness and bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, and when she sees the words '_whimper_' and '_mouth_' and '_bed_' in the same sentence, she nervously closes the book and stuffs it back into her handbag.

The sun's setting when they arrive in York, a gorgeous array of orange and yellow and red greeting them along the horizon. Ann admires it through the window as the last of the sun's rays glisten through the glass, and when she looks over her shoulder toward Anne to comment how_ beautiful _it all is, Anne's already smiling warmly back at her, fancying something else entirely.

Traffic is, inevitably, not on their side. Bumper to bumper, they're stuck in a near standstill, slowly – agonizingly - winding their way through York until they arrive at their hotel at a half past 7. At the end of the private road, there's a rustic wooden sign welcoming them, lit by a series of orange-hued lights angled beneath it, and while the building certainly doesn't seem as large as _The Shibden _from the outside as they approach_,_ it's equally as magnificent if not more so when Ann gets a closer look, built in historic brick with expertly hand-carved detail and surrounded by pristinely cared for flower beds filled with white tulips and a wide array of wildflowers. A long stone walkway leads them to the front entrance, and as they enter, Ann stops to read the name on the door in decorative cursive font: _La Chaumière_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who are familiar with the wonderful Shibden After Dark podcast: _oh yes_, they are staying in the _Fuck Hut_.
> 
> Comments make the author smile and inspire more :) Leave your thoughts below!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are back in business! :) 
> 
> Special shout out to my wife, who so graciously let me work on this while we were away on our vacation / holiday. You all have her to thank for this ;)
> 
> Oh yeah - this chapter may kinda sorta definitely not be safe for work.
> 
> Enjoy ;)

_La Chaumière_ is an artist's dream. No detail has been spared, from the historic wooden archway to the magnificent staircase at the entryway. With swirling gold banisters and a beautiful woven red runner down the middle, Ann itches to draw it all. Perhaps she'll settle into the lobby at some point with a cup of tea and her pencils, but for now she follows Anne blindly, first to the front desk to check in (under Lawton – Mariana's reservation), then up to their room to settle in.

The suite is even more beautiful than Ann could ever have imagined. Like the lobby, the room is lined with gorgeous dark hickory hardwood floors – clearly original to the building and recently refinished. A variety of patterned rugs sit beneath the various tables and chairs, and a series of small hand lamps with silver bases compliment the dangling brushed nickel crystal chandelier overhead. But Ann's absolute favorite part of it all is the magnificent fireplace at the far side of the room, lined in dark red brick with a black protective screen that's embellished with a bronze leaf-pattern across the front.

“Do you like it?” Anne asks softly, taking notice of how Ann's standing in the middle of the living area still mesmerized by it all.

“I _love _it.”

“Come see the bedroom then,” Anne encourages.

She _certainly _doesn't have to ask twice.

Like the rest of the suite, there's luxury in every corner, from the magnificent wooden wardrobe to the three floor length windows looking out to the gardens below. Long brown drapes are tucked to each side with golden rope, and while Ann hopes there will be reason to close them soon enough, she also imagines just how beautiful the view will be in the morning as the sun peeks through, a single band of light dancing across Anne's face and neck as she sits in the armchair beside it, writing or sipping coffee or-

“Do you have a preference?”

Ann blinks, out of sorts from her daydream. “Sorry?”

Anne points to the two queen-sized beds beside them.

She'd been too enamored with the rest of the décor to really notice. The concept of separate beds is marginally disappointing, but also puts Ann's mind at ease, Mariana's original intention to share the room with Anne suddenly appearing far less threatening. Both beds are decorated in the same crisp white sheets with a tan throw folded on the end. There are two pillows perched at the headboard of each as well, and there's really no advantage in choosing one over the other except for the wooden desk nearby - an old, heavy thing that Ann guesses could easily be 100 years old. With all the writing and research ahead of her, she'll leave the bed closest to the desk for Anne, and claims the other by setting her duffel bag on top of it.

“Are you hungry? I apologize for how late we've arrived.” Anne stops to check the watch at her wrist – thin, silver, Ann surmises designer though her knowledge of any is far too limited to make a guess.

Having barely eaten all day, Ann is certainly hungry, but even more so, she's _exhausted_. Anne always seems to breathe new life into her whenever they are together though, and so she hopes to find a second wind wherever Anne is ready to whisk them away to. “Do you have anywhere in mind?”

Anne smiles. “I think I know just the place. Let me just freshen up and we'll go?”

Ann nods in agreement. When Anne has fully disappeared into the nearby washroom, she sits on the edge of the bed and lays back for a moment of rest. The ceiling is decorated with a subtle, swirling grey pattern that starts in the corner and blossoms into the middle, and her eyes instinctively follow it, each curve and twist until her vision grows hazy and dark, on the cusp of sleep as a dream begins to creep in – Anne beside her, holding her hand, leading her across the pavement as they explore York together. Beneath the soft light of a street lamp, Anne pulls her aside and embraces her, tells her how beautiful she looks and how desperate she's been to kiss her all day, and there's the spicy scent of Anne's perfume between them and the delicately soft touch as Anne's fingers stroke her cheek. Then the heat of Anne's breath against her lips. It all seems so real, so plausible with how vivid it all is. And then there's her name, spoken barely above a whisper, and Anne's just about to kiss her when she hears it again, suddenly waking her.

“Ann.”

She blinks.

With the light of the chandelier above, Anne is glowing as she looks over her, smiling in adoration as she gently touches Ann's face. In such close proximity, the smell of orange and jasmine is strong where Anne's clearly just applied it at her wrist. “Darling, I think you may have nodded off.”

Ann nods sleepily.

“We can stay in if you're too tired. There's plenty of time-”

“No,” Ann insists, and with that she sits up, legs dangling over the edge of the bed. “No.” She repeats, almost as if she's trying to convince herself of it. A night in at the fireplace, wrapped up together, enjoying the warmth and perhaps an entirely different sort of heat, sounds like an absolutely ideal way to spend their evening if Anne's asking for her opinion, but she's loathe to disappoint when Anne seems so excited about it. “Where are we off to?”

Anne grins, eyes sparkling with a hint of mischief.

**-x-x-x-**

Always full of surprises, Anne's tight-lipped about where they're headed except that it's only a block or so away. The sun has set by the time they've begun their journey, and in the dark, there's a chill in the air that makes Ann shiver despite the long pink peacoat she's wearing. Anne walks jauntily along the stone path and pavement just outside of the hotel, and when it's clear Ann's struggling to keep up in the magenta pumps she's slipped on for their evening out, Anne takes pause and reaches for her hand, carefully tangling their fingers together. She runs her thumb across the back of Ann's palm and laughs. “There.” She places a delicate kiss on Ann's knuckle. “Easier to rein me in this way.”

They walk the block hand-in-hand. It's quiet, intimate, a simple touch that should not unhinge Ann the way it does. But when Anne looks over and smiles, gives her palm a little squeeze or swipes her fingertip across the pulse at her wrist, she's reduced to a trembling mess. Every move Anne makes is so calculated, so precise in her flirting and teasing that Ann can barely fathom how to match her.

“Almost there,” Anne relays, pointing to the crowd gathered at the very end of the block.

As they move closer, Ann squints to make out the sign at the front of the building: _The Gondola_. There's a golden image of its namesake above the lettering, and as they walk through the entryway, they're welcomed by the sound of a piano, a freestyled melody that's quickly accompanied by the quick, brassy tone of a saxophone. The scent of liquor is heavy in the air as they walk further inside, and as they take a seat closer of the bar, Ann can almost taste the bourbon, the smell thick around them. The décor of the club seems so familiar, like a distant memory or a dream. The walls around them are dark – not quite black, but a dark blue on the verge of indigo – and the art deco in alternating gold and grey frames brings a particular time period to mind. Lost in admiration, Ann barely notices the server that approaches their table. She hears something about a glass of whiskey on the rocks and a snack plate to share, but she's too lost in the music and general adoration that when asked her drink preference, her mind goes momentarily blank. “Whatever she's having,” Ann blurts, and when their waitress leaves them alone to disappear behind the bar, Anne shoots her an amused look from across the table.

“I certainly didn't take you for a whiskey drinker.”

She'll blame her lessened inhibitions on lack of sleep and a bit of low blood sugar, but Anne's so _good_ at bringing out this other side of her – adventurous and risk-taking and playful. Whiskey would _never _have been her first choice, but the ambiance and the company is just so right for it, and if she's going to survive being in such close proximity to Anne and having her look at her like _that_, dark-eyed and lustful, a bit of liquid courage might be just the thing to steady Ann's nerves. “I'm full of surprises, I guess.”

“Sweetheart,” Anne laughs, “I don't doubt that for a _second_.”

Their drinks arrive from the bar quickly enough. Anne downs half of it like a pro, while Ann takes little sips that are a clear source of amusement for the company beside her. As a gorgeous rendition of _Summertime_ fills the room – the pianist taking the spotlight as she plays the iconic first notes – Ann is struck with an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. Perhaps it's the Jameson going to her head or the exhaustion kicking in, but she simply can't shake the strange feeling of familiarity.

“Everything ok?” Anne asks, clearly noticing the look of confusion on Ann's face.

“It's silly,” Ann insists.

Still, Anne urges her on with a wave of her hand.

“I have this strange sensation that I've been here before. Which is ridiculous, because I _know_ I haven't.” She laughs awkwardly and stares down into her glass, swirling the amber liquid back and forth over the bit of ice around it.

“You have though,” Anne explains, tossing it out as though it's the most obvious thing in the world, which only confuses Ann more in her slightly tipsy state. “In a way. You may not have physically been here, but perhaps you've _read_ about it?”

The recognition hits Ann like a tidal wave. “_Evening Hour_.”

Anne raises her glass in a subtle toast. “This place has been around for almost 100 years. When I was younger, it was a great escape. I used to come here and listen to the music.”

For some reason, Ann guesses the music wasn't the only reason for Anne's visits; she bites her tongue and listens to the rest of Anne's story.

“I was on a first-name basis with the owner in the late 90's. His daughter Isabella worked as a bartender here for awhile. She'd sneak me cigars and the occasional scotch and tell me stories about traveling abroad, which sounded so exotic at the time. Tib was a bit older, but we were still kindred spirits, in a way. She always told me I had an old soul.” Anne shrugs. “She was the one to inspire me to actually write my first book. Caught me scribbling a bunch of nonsense on a napkin one day. And the rest, as they say, is history.”

“Did you love her?” Ann curses the whiskey and its loose-lipped effect on her.

Anne laughs. “Perceptive, I'll give you that.” She taps her middle finger against her glass a few times in contemplation, ever the writer in the way she so carefully chooses her words.

When she doesn't get an answer after a few seconds, however, Ann takes the hint and shifts the conversation elsewhere. “What happened after you finished it? Your book, I mean?”

“Oh, _life_. We grew apart. I was pulled in all directions once it was picked up. Publishers. Editors. Agents.”

With that, Ann sucks down the last of her drink. Yet she's still not drunk enough for the Mariana conversation.

“Last I heard, the Norcliffes had sold the place to a family friend. Any time I'm back in York, which is far less often than I'd like, I try to stop in for a drink just to remember where it all started.” It's subtle, but Ann still notices a wistful sigh on Anne's part – the heavy rise and fall of her chest and shoulders and a quiet exhale, which she quickly muffles with the last of her whiskey.

Clearly looking to drop the topic, Anne shifts her focus back to the stage, enjoying the music and the ambiance. Ann, on the other hand, can do nothing but admire the striking view beside her, of the wavy shadows dancing across Anne's face as the purple and blue stagelights reflect into the audience. Oblivious (although maybe purposefully so), Anne picks up a small pretzel stick from their shared snack tray and brings it to her lips – an innocent enough gesture, but even the briefest flash of sharp, white teeth or the pink tip of her tongue unsettles Ann.

Other patrons come and go at leisure, but the two of them sit together for awhile, listening to the various covers and improvisations by the talented jazz band. They drink another round of whiskey, and each touch on Anne's part gets a bit more flirtatious as the night goes on – from a tucked lock of hair to a hand at her thigh, slowly stroking, never venturing very far but enough to certainly make Ann feel hot and bothered.

Eventually, Anne checks her watch, shocked to find how late it is. “Is it already 11? We should get back.” She strokes Ann's cheek before turning to finish the last sip from her second glass. “It's been a _day_, hasn't it?”

Their walk back is innocent enough, but there's a hum of anticipation in the air as they carefully ascend the staircase of _La Chaumière_ to return to their suite. Dizzy from excitement and exhaustion, Anne's hand at the back of her waist is the only thing that keeps Ann steady on shaking legs as they climb, and yet, the pressure of Anne's fingertips at her hip makes her lightheaded in an entirely different way.

When they enter the room, Ann half expects to be devoured on the spot – pressed against the back of the door, the weight of Anne's body against hers as she's thoroughly, deliciously ravished. And while the expression on Anne's face certainly implies her intent, she takes her time, setting the mood with low lights as they saunter down the hall together. Holding Ann's hand delicately in hers, they move slowly toward the bedroom, and as they approach the doorway, she places a soft kiss on Ann's palm, then another down at her wrist before her lips curl into a teasing smile. “Make yourself comfortable? There's a bottle of champagne chilling in the fridge if you're interested?”

Ann simply nods, unsure whether she can manage any other sort of coherent response. She keeps the lights down as she enters the room, and not trying to be too presumptuous, settles into the armchair beside the long windows she'd admired only a few hours ago. Drawing one curtain to the side, she takes in the beautiful view below them – of the hotel grounds and the surrounding hills and valleys, as well as the shimmering lights of the bustling York nightlife in the distance. The dark, cloudless sky and the blanket of stars across it only make the scene more picturesque. Ann rests her temple against the glass, almost moved to tears by the beauty of it all. The colors and lights slowly fade to a blur as she blinks, quickly at first to try to stay alert, then heavier as time passes. She can sense herself fading as she waits for Anne to return, and it isn't long before the sleep that her body is so desperate for crashes over her, pulling her down deep into the undertow until she's helpless to fight it.

**-x-x-x-**

Ann awakes to the sound of a soft patter nearby. Groggy, it takes her a moment to realize where exactly she is, no longer curled up in the armchair she last remembers settling into. She's surrounded instead by several pillows and a lavish tan comforter atop a queen-sized mattress, and although fully clothed, her heels and handbag sit neatly tucked on the floor beside the nightstand. Ann hastily rubs the sleep from her eyes, the rest of the room slowly coming into view as her eyes adjust to the dark.

In the corner, she can now see the light glow of a laptop screen at the desk there, but more importantly, there is Anne, who sits on the matching wooden chair with her back turned slightly away from the bed, and while she likely can't see Ann at this angle, Ann can _certainly_ see her in all of her glory. Anne's swapped her blouse for a thin white button-up, the first few unfastened to offer a loose fit that falls over Anne's shoulder to reveal a hint of collarbone and the clear lack of anything else underneath. Her long legs are draped over the edge of the seat, no longer in slacks but instead bare and exposed all the way up to her thigh. Through the sheer material of the button-up, Ann can see the slight outline of black boyshorts at Anne's hips. Her long hair is pulled back into a loose ponytail that drapes delicately across her back, and a pair of thick, black-rimmed glasses sit perched along the bridge of her nose as Anne types furiously, her focus moving back and forth between the array of open books beside her and the keyboard at her fingertips. To her right, there's a half-finished flute of champagne whose bubbles slowly trickle up to the surface of the glass, but Ann's focus remains on the sight of Anne, backlit by the moonlight.

Somehow, wordlessly, Anne calls to her like a siren, and Ann is more than willing to drown.

Carefully, as to not startle her, Ann rises from the bed and tiptoes over to the desk. Anne's deep in concentration as she approaches – the lines at her face and forehead tight as she works – but everything softens the moment Ann touches her, a soft caress of her shoulder to get her attention. Anne turns her head and smiles. “Hello there.”

“How long was I asleep?”

Anne checks the watch that's still fastened at her wrist. “A few hours. I tried to move you as best I could without waking you. Although you were certainly a pretty sight, curled up and purring like a kitten.”

“I was knackered,” Ann laughs, cheeks a little pink with embarrassment.

“I know.”

There's a beat of silence.

Then - “How are you feeling now?”

The anticipation begins to swirl again in the air – thick but comfortable – and Ann can feel her pulse begin to race. She steps closer to press herself against the back of the chair, lessening the gap between them. Every bit of contact until this point has been a calculated move on Anne's part, and there's a rush of exhilaration in the idea of taking control, of catching Anne off guard. Ann bites her own lower lip, wetting it quickly with the tip of her tongue as she focuses on Anne's mouth, making her intentions clearly known. Slowly, she rests one hand at the back of Anne's neck and strokes there for a moment, along the sensitive little bit of skin at her hairline. “Wide awake,” Ann whispers.

“Ann.”

When Anne says her name – once, low, a cross between a command and a plea – the dam breaks. Ann leans in and presses their mouths together in a bruising kiss, the hand she's rested at the back of Anne's neck slyly slipping off the elastic in her hair to snake her fingers into the long, dark waves there. It gives her leverage to pull Anne closer, to guide her mouth and tongue. But control is not something Anne easily relinquishes, and it's not long before she tosses her reading glasses aside onto the desk and stands, her hands quickly finding Ann's waist as she leads her to the bed.

Ann lays back with no hesitation and pulls Anne on top of her rather desperately, which elicits a hum of a laugh that she can feel as Anne's mouth presses against her neck. The sensation of Anne's body against hers only makes her ache more, and when Anne drags her tongue along the base of Ann's throat, peppering a few kisses here and there, Ann arches instinctively into her for any bit of pressure she can manage, the weight of Anne's chest and hips against hers a delicious sensation that makes her head spin.

With expert fingers, Anne begins to undress her, starting with the ponytail that's barely holding the messy braid of blonde curls together at Ann's head. She slides it along her wrist and weaves her fingers back and forth until Ann's hair falls loosely across her hand. Anne lovingly strokes there for a moment, then leans in to kiss the soft skin at her cheeks and the corner of her mouth before she moves lower, carefully unfastening each button of the pink shirt Ann's wearing. Anne's mouth and hands find every inch of bare skin as it's revealed, from the light indent at her collarbone down to her ribcage, Anne's kisses tickling along the edge of the underwire of her bra. Her nose brushes across Ann's stomach in the wake of the delicate kisses she places there. There's a brief moment of eye contact as Anne looks up from between her legs as she's settled there, just before her fingers dip into the band of the leggings at Ann's hips, and Ann is ready, _so ready_, but Anne needs the confirmation before she'll move forward. Ann nods – accompanied by a desperate little whimper – then tangles her fingers through Anne's hair, urging her on, and it's so fast and yet so agonizingly long before Anne has her naked beneath her, sliding the bit of pink lace at her hipbones down over her legs, which Anne takes time to carefully kiss the length of – from her inner thigh down to her knee to the toned muscles of her calves.

Somewhere, amongst her heavy breathing and needy whimpers, she hears Anne whisper for her to spread her legs, and there's a jolt of white lightning behind her eyelids – clenched tightly shut in anticipation – when Anne's mouth finally presses against her. Like everything else she does, Anne is accomplished and adept, and it isn't long before she knows exactly where and how Ann likes it, where to kiss and lick and suck until she's writhing beneath her, a flushed, shaking mess.

_So close_ – white light shifting to burning red, so hot, _so hot_, and then suddenly Anne's moved up above her, and when she opens her eyes, they're face-to-face, Anne looking ravishing and disheveled in her button-up, her lips red and swollen from the kisses she's left between Ann's legs, and Ann can do nothing else but take Anne's face between her hands and pull her to her, mouth against mouth, tasting herself on Anne's tongue. In the space between the white blouse and Anne's shoulder, she slides her hand along Anne's neck and back, tracing her fingernails along the skin there just to _feel_ her, to be as close as she possibly can. When Anne's fingers slip between her legs to find the wetness there, Ann's head falls further back into the pillows and her mouth opens in a slow, desperate moan – one that only seems to urge Anne on more as she presses one finger up and then, finding no resistance, joins it with another. The light trace of Ann's fingertips at Anne's back suddenly shifts into a firmer dragging of nails along the skin there, a few lines of red followed by crescent moon indents as she digs in, holds on for dear life as Anne's fingers curl up and her thumb circles in tandem, the sensation of it all only made sweeter as Anne settles on her thigh and rocks slowly – deliciously – the heat of her felt on Ann's bare skin as she moves. Brought quickly to the precipice, Ann buries her face into the nape of Anne's neck and kisses, bites, falls prey to the motions of it all.

Anne may have many sights planned for them in York, but Ann is certain nothing will compare to the wicked little smile on Anne's face as she watches her unravel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment below with your thoughts :)


	13. Chapter 13

Expecting to wake with Anne's body pressed to hers, arms and legs draped in a lazy embrace, Ann's surprised to find nothing but a cold, empty space beside her, the only evidence of Anne being the light indent at her pillow where her head once rested. It brings about a jolt of panic in Ann, and she wonders whether the wonderful memory of their night together had been nothing more than a whiskey-induced fever dream.

Ann wipes the sleep away from her eyes and quickly scans the room. Everything is in its rightful place, from Anne's suitcase at the end of the other bed to the Macbook charging at the desk. Carefully, Ann rises from the bed, cracking the bones in her neck and shoulders with a slow roll of her head before making her way to the attached bathroom – quite a lavish one, in fact, with a large tub in one corner and a stand-up shower in the other, surrounded by lightly frosted glass for the illusion of privacy. Any other time, Ann would be completely enamored with it all, but in the moment, she's more interested in where Anne has disappeared to, and it isn't until she's sat on the toilet that she notices the slightly crumpled towel hanging on the back of the door, dark and damp where it's been recently used.

Ann grabs the white robe draped beside it and shrugs into it, tying it loosely at her waist before padding down the hall to the living area.

As the sofa and fireplace come into view, she can _hear _Anne's voice but can't properly place it. The armchair shows no sign of her either, and it isn't until she rounds the corner where the kitchenette is tucked that Ann finds her, back turned with her head titled to the side to balance the phone pressed between her shoulder and ear while her hands are otherwise preoccupied with a cup of coffee and a stirring spoon.

“_Yes_, I have the itinerary.”

It's hard not to eavesdrop on the one-sided conversation taking place in front of her. Even across the way, Ann recognizes the distinct tone of Mariana's voice on the other end of the phone, her words quick and hurried in either a bout of excitement or panic; without context, it's difficult to determine which. There's several scenarios that first come to mind, but Ann's hesitant to jump to any conclusions until she's been sufficiently clued in. Instead, she preoccupies herself with the general sight of Anne, dressed unsurprisingly in white and black except for the refreshing burst of color at her neck – a dark red silk scarf that Ann can only see the back of at her current angle, but there's something remarkably enticing about it; she can't quite decide whether it's the striking shade and the smooth material or, more likely, her own desire to wrap her fingers around it and tug Anne to her for a kiss.

Always in tune with her surroundings, there isn't the slightest bit of surprise on Anne's face when she turns to find Ann standing behind her, looking so small with her fuzzy robe and bare feet and sleep-mussed hair. “Good morning,” Anne mouths. “Coffee?”

Ann nods.

A moment later, Anne's offering over a steaming mug, filled close to the edge with the perfect balance of milk and sugar added to it. Ann cradles the cup between her palms and takes a careful sip, watching up over the brim as Anne turns back to the counter to top off her own coffee. Mariana says something that clearly irritates her by the way Anne's brow wrinkles, and with her head thrown back in frustration a moment later, Ann gets a better look at the scarf around Anne's neck, tied loosely in a knot at the front while the remaining silk slips beneath the collar of her white blouse. There's a hint of red and purple across the skin just below her pulse point, a clever attempt made to hide it with the dramatic loops of the knot.

Maybe the night hadn't been such a fever dream at all.

Ann turns away to hide the blush creeping up her cheeks. On the counter, there's a serving bowl filled with complimentary fresh fruit – a few apples, pears and bananas arranged like something out of a painting. Ann digs in to find the lone orange at the bottom, busying herself with the peel as she faces Anne once again and listens to the conversation still unfolding. They're discussing some sort of planned engagement – that much is clear – but she can only piece so much of it together from Anne's responses. It isn't until she's halfway finished peeling the orange in her hands that she realizes Anne's staring at her, the phone still pressed against her ear but her focus otherwise elsewhere, a Cheshire Cat grin on her face as she watches Ann's fingers dip expertly between the peel and the fruit below it.

She may be naive at times, but Ann knows _exactly_ what game's being played here, and while Anne's certainly the expert at it, a little teasing of her own could be quite fun. Ann slides the rest of the peel off in one quick motion with her thumb, tossing it aside on the counter behind her, then, with eyes locked across her, dips the sharp tip of her nail into the middle of the orange, a bit of juice quickly dripping down the side and across the curve of her finger. She brings it up to her own lips and sucks, slowly, savoring the taste and Anne's devious little smile in response.

“I'll have to call you back,” Anne insists rather suddenly. She taps fervently on the red '_end call_' icon and tosses her phone behind her, unfazed as it lands roughly on the counter with a smack. No, Anne's focus is entirely on Ann, stalking forward to weave her way into this little game.

And with Anne's full attention now, Ann takes it up a notch. Curling a finger along the edge of her orange, she pulls one slice out from the center and bites. Juice trickles from the pulp and coats her lips, sweet and tangy in taste and smell. Yet what's more delicious is how close Anne is now, looking so fine and tall and composed except for the bit of red that she simply can't hide at her cheeks.The love bite at her neck is more prominent in their close proximity, barely hidden by the red silk, and Ann instinctively stares at it – at her _handiwork_. There's a halfhearted apology somewhere if she tries, but she's not sorry, not _really__; _if given the opportunity, she'd do it again – although perhaps in a less obvious spot.

Any semblance of coherent thought is lost the moment Anne caresses the side of her neck with her hand. There's a gentle pressure as Anne's fingers curl to pull her closer, then Anne's mouth is on hers in a series of rough, hot kisses – sweet and sticky as Anne's tongue eagerly moves against hers. The tang of citrus paired with the bruising force of Anne's kisses leaves Ann's lips tingling and swollen after awhile, and when she finally pulls away rather breathlessly, Anne chuckles. “I was going to suggest somewhere for breakfast, but it seems you're already one step ahead of me.”

Ann pulls another slice from the orange and holds it up to Anne's mouth as an offering.

Anne bites off just the end of it, a poor attempt at gracefulness that ends with a trickle of juice at her chin. Ann watches as it falls, a slow drip along her throat that she is _more_ than happy to lick away.

It's softer this time – lazy, unhurried, Anne's fingers threading gently through her hair to guide her as Ann's tongue swipes along the corner of her mouth before dipping down to lightly drag her lips along Anne's neck and jawline. The control shifts back and forth until the lead falls once again into Anne's court, her breath hot at Ann's ear as she whispers sweet nothings there while running her hands down the length of Ann's body, eventually settling on the tie at the waist of her robe. “I had planned a day out for us,” she hums while she begins to work at the knot with deft fingers; it's a matter of seconds before she's able to slip one hand beneath it. “The weather forecast looks lovely. Sunny.” Anne's palm slides across the bare skin at Ann's hip. “Breezy.” Down still, nails tickling a thigh. “Comfortable.” She slips her hand between Ann's legs, offering nothing more than a teasing brush of fingertips, but enough to encourage a whimper. Anne coos playfully. “You're practically trembling. Perhaps a day in the sun would do you some good?”

With that, she pulls away, clearly pleased with herself as she nonchalantly smooths a wrinkle from her slacks, then smiles at Ann expectantly. “We'll leave by 10 then?”

**-x-x-x-**

According to plan, Thomas arrives a little before 10, greeting them warmly at the lobby of the _La Chaumière. _Ann wears a cute rose-patterned blouse in a subtle homage to Anne's scarf, along with a pair of dark wash jeans and black flats. The ensemble falls somewhere between fashionable and comfortable, but Anne's nod of approval as she'd tossed it on is assurance enough that she's made a suitable enough choice for the day's excursion.

The hills and valleys of York rush by as they drive deeper into the city, and while Ann's visited many times in her life, she doesn't recall it being this beautiful. The change of seasons have left the trees decorated in lovely shades of orange and yellow, complimented by the expertly landscaped lawns of the various gatehouses and cathedrals on the horizon. Thomas drops them off at the edge of a long stone bridge, and as Anne discusses their return time with him, Ann leans over on her tiptoes to watch the slow trickle of a river below.

“Walk with me?”

Ann looks over her shoulder, and although there's a crowd of visitors passing behind, she only has eyes for Anne, who beckons her over with an outstretched hand. With Anne by her side, they move deeper into the city together, and as the massive architecture of limestone comes clearer into view, Ann realizes where exactly Anne's taken her. The York City Walls are a staple of the city's history, but she's never had the opportunity to experience them for herself, and as they climb up together to start the tour – Anne's hand at her waist to keep her steady – she's buzzing with excitement and a touch of fear from the height of it all.

True to form, Anne goes against the guide's instruction and starts in the opposite direction – a far less crowded one that might offer them a more private view. They make their way west first, passing the railway station and the massive scaffolding of the Micklegate Bar. There's a royal coat of arms with beautiful gold and red shields and statues that Ann snaps a picture of as they pass by, and as they reach the southern most part of the trail an hour in, Anne pulls her over to the edge of the wall to admire the stunning view of York Minster to the north. “The view from up here is inspirational, isn't it?” Anne gestures outward.

It's a spectacular sight, massive and striking amongst the other towers and landmarks surrounding them, but it's Anne who looks truly stunning, the sun above casting a striking shadow on her profile. Small wisps of hair fall into her eyes as a light wind blows through, rippling the knot of silk at her neck. There's a subtle hint of vulnerability in her expression as Anne admires the expanse of land below them, and while she's always a spectacle to behold, it's _this_ Anne that Ann would love to capture on pen and paper. With limited means, a photograph will have to do.

“Take a picture with me?” Ann asks quietly, and while there are many reactions she might anticipate, Anne's shyness certainly comes as a surprise.

“Oh, I...” Anne brushes away a rogue curl from her face, which immediately falls back with another gust of wind. She fixes the collar of her blouse and cuff of her sleeves, then, with her back against the stone, beckons Ann closer with a wave. “How do you want me, Miss Photographer?”

They fall quickly into a comfortable pose together, hip-to-hip as Ann holds her phone out at eye level. York from above acts as the perfect background, and while it's all beautiful enough, it's the feeling of Anne's fingers laced with hers as Anne slyly clasps their hands together at her side that truly makes Ann's breath hitch.

She counts to three, smiles wide, and snaps a photo.

Walking northeast together, dark grey clouds begin to move in overhead. It isn't exactly the sunny skies the forecast had promised, but the stronger breeze that sweeps in feels fantastic against her skin. The chill in the air only encourages her to press herself closer into Anne's side, linked not just hand-in-hand but also arm-in-arm, but Anne's stance on public displays of affection are unclear to her, and so Ann settles for the warmth of Anne's hand in hers as they slowly make their way north toward York Minster.

It's considerably more crowded as they reach the north corner of the trail, and while the noticeable shift in air pressure signals that rain's ahead, Anne appears determined to lead her somewhere, clearly on a mission as they zig zag through tour groups and families to settle on the far west side of the cathedral. It's been years since she's set foot near such a church, but Ann has to admit that the architecture of it all is stunning in its gothic style, marvelously preserved through the years. Although the sun's slowly disappearing behind the expanse of clouds overhead, the massive stained glass still manages to catch beams here and there, sparkling beautifully from above. Settling beneath a massive heart-shaped tracery, Anne takes her hand and gently squeezes. “What do you think?” she asks, pointing to the window above.

“It's gorgeous,” Ann answers, genuinely marveled by the beauty of it all.

“There's an old legend that says if you kiss someone beneath the Heart of Yorkshire, you'll stay together forever.”

Ann blushes. “Is there?”

Anne looks over to her, smiling warmly. “Indeed.” She strokes the back of Ann's palm softly with her thumb. “Wouldn't hurt to have a go at it, would it?”

The blush at Ann's cheeks deepens from pink to crimson, and while the heights of the city had left her feeling a bit lightheaded, _this_ makes her positively dizzy. A few drops of rain fall across her face from above, ice cold against the sudden heat of anticipation rising up her neck, but any worry fades away as Anne leans in and kisses her, soft and gentle with one hand at her hip while the other caresses her face. The countless romance novels she's read in her lifetime still couldn't prepare Ann for how this moment feels – warm, a little overwhelming, yet absolutely swoon-worthy. When Anne leans back for a breath, it's Ann who pulls her in again, using the red silk scarf as leverage to twist her fingers around and tug her forward into another kiss. It is slow and tender and utterly romantic, and when they finally step apart, there's the wetness of tears at her cheeks – or at least, that's what Ann assumes until the sensation quickly follows at her neck, then the bridge of her nose, followed by her knuckles until-

Rain. Unexpected to say the least, and there's a clear expression of frustration on Anne's face at the misleading forecast from earlier in the day. It starts as a gentle sprinkle, but by the time they round the corner back toward where they'd started, the skies have opened into a rather steady downpour. They duck beneath the nearest archway they can find, and while Anne is rather sour about the weather, frantically calling Thomas for an earlier ride, Ann listens contentedly to the soft patter of rain against the surrounding stonework. The fact that they're practically drenched head to toe simply doesn't bother her, and as soon as Anne's finished her call, Ann pulls Anne to her by her sopping wet shirt collar and kisses her roughly again, unbothered by whatever audience they may have.

**-x-x-x-**

Although it's only the early afternoon by the time they arrive back at _La Chaumière, _the storm brings an eery darkness through the city that carries through to their suite, the wide windows at the wall letting little natural light in – only a hint of grey shadows that dance along the hardwood. The car ride had been rather uncomfortable in their sopping wet clothes, and while Ann's eager to be rid of her dripping blouse and jeans, she'd prefer someone _else_ help divest her of them. A contrast to the sticky, cold rainwater at her shoulders and arms, Anne's breath is hot at the back of her neck as she presses her lips there. “A shower, perhaps?” she suggests, nipping at a particularly sensitive spot behind Ann's ear. “Wouldn't want you to catch a cold this early in our travels.”

They move through the room together in the darkness, keeping the lights drawn low as they make their way down the hall. It doesn't take long for their eyes to adjust, yet the dark only adds to the ambiance of it all. Between kisses and caresses, they stumble their way to the bathroom, Anne fumbling blindly behind her to twist on the shower knob while Ann distracts her with desperate kisses at her neck and jaw. Hot water sputters from the showerhead and quickly fills the room with smoky wisps of steam. Anne's fingers work deftly on the buttons of Ann's blouse and jeans, tossing the collection of sopping wet clothing aside in record time. When Ann attempts to do the same in turn, Anne playfully swats her hand away, keeping the control as she leads Ann beneath the stream of water overhead.

In the dark, Anne is a sensuous silhouette, all shadows and cheekbones and long limbs as she slowly undresses herself, starting with the red silk at her neck that she unties one-handed with a simple twist of her fingers. She's playing her own game now, a slow striptease to put Ann on edge, and with little patience, Ann reaches out and pulls her in with her, a rush of hot water falling across Anne's face and shoulders until it soaks her white blouse straight through. Ann tugs desperately at the waist of it to untuck it from her slacks, and while the fine details of Anne are hazy and hidden, Ann can certainly_ feel_ her, the sweet sensation of soft skin at her hips and spine as her fingers trace beneath the thin, wet cotton. She craves every inch of Anne, wants her naked body against hers while she shows she can give as good as she gets if given the opportunity.

But leveraging the few inches she has on her, Anne steps forward and presses Ann against the wall of the shower with the weight of her body. The water trickles into Ann's eyes and face from above, and it's the need for a breath and the teasing hand between her legs that makes Ann's head fall back limply and lessens the little resolve she has, a gasp for air quickly followed by a strangled moan when Anne's fingers wrap around the loose, wet curls at her head and pull – not roughly, just enough to bring about a pleasant sting across her scalp that is the perfect counterpart to the throb where Anne's other hand dips and moves. She hooks one leg up at Anne's waist, offering a better angle for the both of them, and oh, is Anne's pace relentless as she twists her wrist and thrusts forward. Ann closes her eyes and wraps her arms around Anne's shoulders, steadying herself as Anne's movements rock her upward. And still, she can't help herself, only encouraging Anne to ravish her more with a series of strangled pleas – _faster, harder_ – that Anne is more than willing to give into.

Greedily, Anne swallows the sound of her name that falls from Ann's lips as she comes.

**-x-x-x-**

When the water runs cold, they move to the bed, and while there's a stark difference between the heat of the shower and the temperature of the suite, Anne's mouth quickly makes up for the chill in the air, warmth radiating wherever her lips fall. It starts with a swirl of her tongue at Ann's neck, then a light nip of teeth at one nipple, until Anne settles between Ann's legs once more. Tiny droplets of water trickle from Anne's wet hair down the sensitive skin at Ann's inner thigh, and paired with the hot little kisses Anne places there, it's miraculous she lasts as long as she does before Ann's arching against her again, one fist tight at her scalp while the other tangles hopelessly around the thin sheet beneath her.

**-x-x-x-**

Utterly exhausted, Ann naps contentedly for over an hour with her head at Anne's breast and their legs entwined. It's an uncomfortable beam of light at her eyelids that eventually wakes her, and when Ann groggily searches for the source of it from her place in Anne's arms, she isn't exactly shocked to find her bedmate tapping furiously at the touchscreen of her iPhone.

“Do you ever sleep?” Ann teases, her voice low. “Put that away.”

“I just had an idea I wanted to jot down. Almost done.”

“Anne.”

“Just a second. I _promise_.”

Impatient and bratty, Ann twists away from Anne's hold and mounts her at the waist, playfully snatching the phone away from her hand to toss it far away on the other side of the mattress. They descend into a fit of laughter together, Anne trying to retrieve her mobile and failing miserably as Ann pins her down by the wrists. Anne's long hair is a mess of dark curls across the pillows, knotted and damp from their shower, and the shirt she'd hastily pulled on afterward is hopelessly disheveled, buttons mismatched and the collar uneven.

Anne looks hot. _So hot_.

Ann leans in and presses their lips together in a slow, lazy kiss.

“Can I ask you something?” Anne's eyes are bright and her features unusually soft as she stares up waiting for Ann's response.

“Of course.”

Before she can continue, there's several knocks in quick succession at the front door of their suite.

Without even answering it, Ann already knows who's made an early arrival.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Orange sticky kisses?
> 
> Orange. Sticky. Kisses.
> 
> While things have been crazy busy lately, particularly at work, I promise that every single one of your comments and kudos have encouraged me to continue writing despite being utterly exhausted. Thank you to everyone who has read and continues to do so. Leave a comment below with your thoughts :)


	14. Chapter 14

“Well, at least you were kind enough to knock.”

The front door blocks Ann's view from where she's hidden around the corner of the bedroom hallway, but Anne's greeting is enough to confirm her suspicions about their unexpected guest.

“You hung up in such a hurry and didn't answer any of my calls.” Bag in hand, Mariana swoops in like a force of nature, looking shockingly composed in a maroon pencil skirt and matching blazer despite her inevitably frenzied ride north. The room buzzes with energy as she enters, and as Ann watches her, it's easy to see how much of a finely matched pair she and Anne are in spirit and wit.

“I was busy.”

Mariana sets her suitcase down beside the center coffee table and gives the room a once over before doing the same to Anne, an amused little smirk on her face as she notices Anne's uneven collar and wrinkled button-up where she's hastily attempted to tuck it into the waistline of her jeans. “_Yes_, I can see that.”

With Mariana's remark, there's a crackle of tension between them. Ann bites her lip and watches from the shadows, waiting for the inevitable boiling point.

Instead, Mariana slips out of her heels and sinks into the armchair at the window with a heavy sigh.

“By all means, make yourself comfortable,” Anne sarcastically insists as she closes the door behind her, leaving it unlocked as a subtle hint.

“Have anything worthwhile to drink?”

“I'm sure the minibar is fully stocked in _your_ room.”

Mariana dismisses her with an eyeroll. “Where's _Miss Walker_?”

There's something in the way she says it – with such sing-songy emphasis – that makes Ann's skin crawl. She fixes the sleeve of the violet sweater she's thrown on and stomps down the hall at the sound of her name. Her messy updo and department store leggings will do little to impress, but hiding in the other room is the coward's way out – and Ann Walker is_ not_ a coward.

“_There_ she is,” Mariana greets, smiling sardonically. “And how has York been treating you so far?”

Finding it painfully awkward to stand between them, Ann settles into one end of the nearby sofa instead, her body tucked tightly beside the armrest. “Very well, thank you.” In closer proximity, she can feel Mariana's stare on her, slowly sizing her up from across the way. Ann anxiously plays with the sleeve of her sweater to try to alleviate some of her nervous energy, her finger twisting back and forth around a loose piece of string at a frayed edge of it.

Then, like a hero, Anne is there at her side, moving away from her spot near the doorway to join her at the sofa. Never one to sit still, Anne opts for the armrest instead, balancing on the edge of it with her legs dangling to one side. She drapes one arm lightly across Ann's shoulders in a makeshift embrace, and Ann looks up at her in turn, so tall and regal perched beside her. From the angle below her, Ann is captivated by how stunning she is, the light overhead spilling through the thin material of her white button up to show every sharp angle and curve of her, from her collarbones to the defined muscles at her bicep. Hopelessly smitten, Ann shifts her attention to Mariana to avoid melting into an embarrassing, Lister-induced puddle. “How was your drive?”

“Very sweet of you to ask,” Mariana practically coos. “Rather uneventful. Kept myself busy confirming this one's schedule. Which reminds me.” She grabs her briefcase and begins to finger through it, eventually pulling out an entire filing folder with AL printed on the front. Even from her spot at the sofa, Ann can tell there's much more inside the briefcase, color-coded and expertly organized and labeled, and it makes her wonder just how vast Mariana's clientele is. “The radio interview with MRS York has been moved up to 9. There was a cancellation on 104.3 for their '_Book of the Week_' segment that I managed to snag for 10:30, and-”

“Did they even _read_ it?” Anne asks, clearly annoyed.

“I rushed them a copy.”

“_Great_.”

Ann can sense the tension again, Anne's body tightening against her as Mariana continues to relay the rest of Wednesday's busy schedule. “Did you stop for a bite on your way up?” Ann interjects, hoping to shift the conversation to something that isn't Anne's exhausting itinerary.

“I did not.”

Ann looks up, and suddenly the tension is gone in Anne's face. There's a silent '_thank you_' exchanged between them, in the subtle curl of Anne's lips and the quick little wink she offers before looking back over to Mariana. “Mary dear, why don't we all grab dinner and a drink? There's plenty of time to discuss business later.”

“_Actually_, there isn't if we have to be there by 8 tomorrow,” Mariana corrects, “but I have learned by now there is little use in arguing with you.”

“Well done,” Anne compliments mockingly. “Give us ten minutes and we'll be on our way then?”

Suddenly, there are fingers wrapped lightly around Ann's wrist, gently tugging her from the sofa and down the hall to the bedroom. Anne kicks the door shut behind them, surprisingly forceful with one bare foot, and then, Anne's weight is against her, pressing her into the back of the door as she stifles the surprised little squeak that falls from Ann's lips with the pressure of her own. With the countdown having already begun, there is simply no time for this, but that doesn't stop Ann from closing her eyes and enjoying the hungry kisses Anne leaves across her mouth and neck. It is daring and spontaneous, almost risque with Mariana only a few steps away in the other room. It is so unlike anything Ann's ever done before, yet that only encourages her more. She grips the collar of Anne's shirt and kisses her roughly in turn.

And then, as quickly as it's begun, Anne disappears into the nearby bathroom to ready herself for their impending dinner, leaving Ann with a love-drunk smile on her face and butterflies swirling in her stomach.

**-x-x-x-**

Although Anne is apt to simply walk, she acquiesces to Mariana's desire to drive instead, calling upon Thomas to take them a few short blocks into town. Somehow – likely not by chance – Ann finds herself stuck in the middle in the back seat, Anne situated close to her left while Mariana sits nearby on her right. A gentle stroke of fingertips at her wrist startles Ann at first, hardly expecting anything of the sort with a certain someone in such close proximity, but Anne seems completely nonchalant about it, her head turned to innocently gaze out the window while her thumb circles lightly back and forth across the delicate skin at Ann's palm.

Though Mariana keeps mostly to herself, Ann can still feel her subtle stare now and then – quick glances out of the corner of her eye before she quickly shifts back to the phone in her hands to answer an email or a text. Her expression is difficult to read, masking her emotions with an expertise that is almost Lister-level, which only makes Ann more anxious as they approach the nearby cluster of restaurants and shops.

Like their choice of transportation, Anne leaves the dinner selection up to Mariana as well. There are several nearby options, but they eventually settle on _Catch_, a fine dining restaurant specializing in locally sourced ingredients. The ambiance is soft and romantic, with dimly lit candles and a thin vase of roses at the middle of their table, and once they're sat together, Ann finds herself easily distracted, more interested in the dark red and brown hues of the restaurant's décor than the dinner menu itself. A large wooden bookcase in the corner is also of particular interest, filled with a variety of old cookbooks that are likely just for show, but that doesn't stop Ann from wanting to get a closer look at them. If they were alone, she could imagine Anne sneaking over to grab one for the sole purpose of making her smile. They would finger through it slowly together while they waited for their meals, sipping their wine and sharing bread and discussing their favorite foods.

“Red or white?”

Mariana's voice from across the table brings Ann back to reality. “I'm sorry?”

“Wine?” Mariana reiterates, eyebrows raised in annoyance. “Unless you don't drink?”

“She prefers red,” Anne interrupts. She looks to Ann for confirmation, who offers a smile and a nod in response as she fondly remembers their shared bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon – a rather expensive vintage that had been a far cry from her usual bargain store find. When a waitress arrives to take their drink orders, Anne chooses a similar year for the table to share, and while Ann can't be certain, she likes to think that it's a subtle homage to their first dinner together – and the idea of a shared little something between them that Mariana is oblivious to brings a blush to her cheeks.

“Any recommendations?” Ann asks as she finally begins perusing the entrée list.

“They have a _wonderful_ seared scallop,” Anne suggests.

Mariana chuckles. “Seafood? Really?”

Anne frowns. “Yes, and?”

“Freddy, _please_ tell me you remember that cruise on the Atlantic in 2017?”

“Oh, you'll never let me _forget_,” Anne replies through gritted teeth.

Mariana's attention shifts to Ann, who looks back and forth between them wide-eyed and curious. There's obviously a story behind whatever trip Mariana's referring to, but Ann's more interested in Anne's strange nickname. Before Ann gets a chance to ask, Mariana begins with some backstory. “Anne was _supposed_ to speak on a cruise as part of a book promotion with some fellow biographers, but ended up stuck in her cabin for the majority of the holiday because she was horrendously seasick. The further out to sea we were, the worse she got, and even the _smell _of saltwater turned her green.”

When Mariana laughs in amusement, Anne scowls, but Ann notices a playfulness in it all that may mean any ill-will is simply in jest. “You've always been such a lovely friend,” Anne quips.

“I _do_ recall holding your hair back.”

“That's true,” Anne concedes with a shrug and a hint of a smile. “But _must_ you take such pleasure in embarrassing me so?”

Mariana wipes a tear of laughter away from the corner of her eye. “Always.” She turns to Ann and adds, “she vowed never to never go anywhere near seafood again.”

“Tastes change,” Anne bites back, swirling her finger slowly around the rim of her water glass before tipping it ever so slightly as a makeshift toast in Mariana's direction.

“Indeed,” Mariana replies sharply.

Ann is monumentally grateful when their waitress returns to take their dinner orders. By Anne's suggestion, she orders seared scallops with a side of risotto and asparagus, while Anne chooses an herb-crusted lamb and roasted potatoes. The last to decide, Mariana opts for a house salad and a cup of lobster bisque.

When the wine hits the table and Anne politely pours her a glass, Ann is more than eager for a sip (or five). “Have you two come here often?” she asks, looking back and forth between them before burying her nose in her drink.

“On and off,” Mariana answers. “Although it's certainly been a few years since the last visit.”

“I spent a lot more time promoting here in York when I was first starting out,” Anne explains. “It was close to home.”

“And me,” Mariana adds with a wink. “She was my first.”

Ann takes a long gulp of wine as Anne chokes on her own. “Christ, Mariana. _Client_. First _client_. It was the first time Daddy Belcombe let her out from behind that secretarial desk.”

_Belcombe_. The name sounds incredibly familiar, yet Ann struggles with where exactly to place it.

“Well, after the disaster that was that first book of yours, it's a miracle he let me do much else afterward. And yet here we are. What was the name of it again?” Mariana furrows her brow and looks up, as though she might magically find the answer there.

“_Evening Hour_,” Ann interjects, and suddenly all eyes are on her – Mariana's expression a state of surprise, while Anne's is of warmth and adoration.

“Have you read it?” Mariana asks, leaning further back into her chair in amusement.

“I haven't finished it yet, but I'm working on it.”

“Ah.” Mariana taps the side of her glass with her nail. “Don't get me wrong, this one can write but...” She shakes her head. “I tried to get her to publish under a pseudonym. We had Fred all picked out and then, last minute, she decided on just the A instead. Always indecisive, this one.”

“I'm right _here_, in case you've forgotten,” Anne snips.

“I could _never_.”

“I've quite enjoyed it,” Ann states matter-of-factly. “I read a lot. It comes with the territory, I suppose, but I haven't been this engrossed with a book in quite some time. Anne's a wonderful biographer, but she has a real talent for fiction as well if _Evening Hour_ is any indication.” From under the table, she feels a little squeeze at her knee where Anne has reached for her in yet another silent '_thank you_'.

“You misunderstand,” Mariana tries to correct.

Ann only gives her half a chance. “No, I don't think I do.”

“It didn't sell,” Mariana explains bluntly. “No matter how great it was, the market for it just wasn't there, especially in the 90's. The subject matter was just too...” She leans in and lowers her voice as though she's about to say something scandalous. “Niche.”

Anne snickers. “That's a rather interesting way of putting it, yes.”

Shrugging, Mariana takes another sip from her glass. “It was a different time.”

“Times change though,” Ann comments. “Maybe-”

“Honestly,” Mariana sighs, clearly exasperated with where the conversation has led. “Anne should stick to what she's good at.” She glances over to Anne and adds, “To what she already knows.”

From beside her, Ann watches the softness in Anne's face fade to something more tight, the vein at her temple more pronounced and her lips thin in contemplation, as though she's choosing her words _very_ carefully to not cause a scene in public. Ann's yet to see a truly unguarded side of Anne, one that freely expresses her anger or hurt, but Ann can sense an inevitable boil-over in the way Anne's fingers tighten just a bit at her thigh. Head raised slightly and jaw set, there's a flicker of hurt in the crooked smile at her lips before she finally addresses Mariana. “We're not alive if we're not taking the odd risk now and again, are we?”

Mariana rolls her eyes. “Always the poet.”

The conversation fades into silence. Ann picks anxiously at the crust of a piece of bread while Anne slowly sips her wine beside her. Mariana busies herself with her phone, and while the situation is rather awkward all around, Ann will happily take the quiet over whatever terse exchange has just unfolded. She and Catherine have certainly had their moments, taunting in good fun, but there is something inherently different about the way Anne and Mariana approach each other. It's partly a business relationship, of course, but there's obviously more history at play for Mariana to speak so openly. What's worse, though, is the lingering sting that is so obvious in the way Anne's body language has shifted, rigid with her chin up and spine straight as she swirls her wine glass. Ann wonders if this is the game they've played for decades – mocking and insulting one another, always brushing it off for appearances but still feeling the lingering effects long after they've parted ways.

The food is absolutely delicious. It's the saving grace of their entire dinner, the three of them finding common ground on just how good each plate is. They share bites here and there, and Ann certainly doesn't say no when dessert is offered – three different types of cheesecake that are only made sweeter when Anne offers her a bite from her own fork to taste. They've just started on the triple-chocolate slice when Mariana's phone begins to chime. At first, she ignores it, but when another call comes through as soon as the first finishes, she eventually answers it with a huff. “Belcombe Publishing,” she greets before slipping away from the table, and it's then that Ann realizes where she's heard the name before.

“She works for Belcombe Publishing?”

Anne laughs. “She _is_ Belcombe Publishing.”

“They're a pretty big player in the space, aren't they?”

Anne finishes her wine and sets her glass down with a pointed '_clink_'. “Yes.”

Ann drops the subject, having clearly struck a nerve. She shoves a large chunk of cheesecake into her mouth to prevent herself from saying anything that may further sour Anne's already icy mood. Mariana returns as she's mid-bite, looking rather frantic as she scoops her handbag and peacoat from the back of her chair. “Need to put out a bit of a fire,” she offers hurriedly. “You wouldn't be terribly put off if I-”

“Go,” Anne assures with a wave of her hand. “We'll see you in the morning.”

“8AM. Don't be late!” Mariana calls over her shoulder before disappearing through the front door of the restaurant, finally leaving the two of them alone once again.

“I think I'm sufficiently full now,” Anne remarks. “Ready to walk back?”

Feeling as though she may burst, Ann nods in agreement. She tries to offer over money to help pay for what is due, but Anne promptly ignores it, leaving several notes of her own to cover the bill. The sky is beautifully clear as they step out onto the pavement, and as they slowly make their way over the hill back toward their hotel, Ann admires the bright stars twinkling above them. Finally alone, it would be the perfect opportunity for a little romance – a stolen kiss or even a simple holding of each other's hands – but Anne's off mood leaves Ann a little unsure as to whether she should even suggest anything of the sort. Without conversation, Ann's acutely aware of the little sounds around them – from the soft chirp of crickets in the grass to the crunch of Anne's boots in the dirt as they wind up the path to _La Chaumière. _

It isn't particularly late, but after their adventurous day and the very early morning ahead of them, Ann's ready to call it a night.

“I'll just be a minute,” Anne promises as Ann makes her way down the hall toward the bedroom.

While she waits, Ann slips out of the blouse and jeans she'd changed into for dinner and chooses something far more comfortable – a sold blue, oversized t-shirt that falls just over the top of her thighs. It's hardly seductive, but tonight is certainly not the right time for a pink negligee or anything else of the sort. After a quick rinse with mouthwash and a hastily thrown together braid to sleep in, Ann slips into bed and waits, busying herself with her cell phone in the meantime. There are a few texts from Catherine that she ignores, and several business-related emails in her inbox, but nothing in need of any urgent attention. She checks her Tweets and Facebook feed as well, even plays a few levels of a puzzle game – and still, more than half an hour later, there is still no Anne beside her. Concerned, Ann tosses her phone aside and makes her way into the living room in search of her.

The lights have all been turned down low, but through the large set of windows near where Mariana had previously lounged, Ann finds Anne outside on the balcony, her back turned to the sliding glass door where she sits in a wooden lounge chair. As Ann moves closer, she can see just over Anne's shoulder where a yellow notepad lays across her lap. In one hand, there's a ballpoint pen, and in the other, there's a long, white cigarette perched between Anne's index and middle fingers. There's a red and orange glow where it's lit on one end, and even though the balcony is dimly lit overhead, Ann can still see the swirl of dark smoke as it frames Anne's face. She looks older, _tired_, and yet there's something strangely enticing about the way Anne brings the cigarette up to her lips and inhales slowly while jotting something down onto the paper in her lap. It's a rawer side of her that she's never really seen, and Ann's almost hesitant to invade the secluded little space Anne's made for herself. She's about to turn around and just go back to bed when she hears Anne's voice.

“One of my many bad habits,” she confesses, her voice a bit hoarse with smoke.

“Are you writing?” Ann asks quietly from the doorway. “I didn't mean to-”

“Not exactly,” Anne laughs. “Reading through some old ideas. Jenny Glusker. Christina Miller. Virginia Apgar.”

“I thought your newest piece was fiction? All the research you've done?”

Anne shrugs, then takes another long drag from her cigarette.

Ann finally joins her on the balcony, standing at Anne's side in nothing more than her long t-shirt and underwear. “This isn't about what was said at dinner, is it?”

“Look at you,” Anne sighs. “You must be freezing.”

“Don't deflect.”

“I'm not,” Anne insists defensively, looking away from where Ann's so close to her now with one hand at her shoulder. The hem of Ann's shirt brushes against Anne's bare arm where she's tossed her jacket and blouse aside for just the black camisole underneath, and it's this featherlight touch that threatens to unravel her, to break down the emotional wall she's built to protect herself. Anne closes her eyes and exhales slowly. “I'm not as strong as you think,” she whispers, a flicker of smoke twisting into the air between them. “Well I am, obviously,” she laughs, pained, “but sometimes I'm not.”

“You don't always have to be,” Ann promises. “Not with me, anyway.”

“You barely know me.” And while it clearly isn't meant to hurt her, the sting is certainly still felt.

“I _want_ to.”

“I...” Anne's voice falters, which she hides behind the last puff of her cigarette. With the tickle of ash in their lungs and a cool breeze across their faces, Anne closes her eyes again and presses her cheek into Ann's stomach where she stands beside her. Ann threads her fingers through dark hair and strokes there for awhile, occasionally peppering soft kisses against her temple and forehead to soothe and assure her.

The cold is no bother to her, but that doesn't stop Anne from mentioning it yet again a few minutes later. She puts out her cigarette with the heel of her boot and leads Ann back inside. Switching any of the remaining lights off behind them, they move to the bedroom together, and it's Ann who first slides beneath the sheets, beckoning Anne to join her with a wave of her hand. They come together quickly once undressed, Anne's body pressed tightly against hers as they share a series of slow kisses, soft and unhurried as Ann's palm runs up and down Anne's bare back. It's perfectly intimate, and while it could easily heat up into something more, they simply take time to enjoy the feel of each other, Ann's fingers and nails tracing along the various curves and corners of Anne's body. Gently caressing Anne's head, Ann encourages her to rest against her chest, and it isn't long before she can feel the slow and steady warmth of Anne's breath at her neck where she falls asleep to the soothing sensation of Ann's fingers carding lazily through her hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I intended to include the first part of Anne's first press day in this chapter, but holy moly did this start to get long, so here we are. What do you think is in store for the ladies as the press tour begins?!
> 
> If inclined, leave a comment below with your thoughts :) I love hearing from you all, and I promise that each and every comment - no matter how big or small - makes me smile like a fool and encourages me to keep going with this story. Thank you to all of the Ann(e)dom for your encouragement and support! <3


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